Dance to a Different Beat
by juliasejanus
Summary: Alex Rider has lived for 12 years as Sasha Makarov. His dance career in doubt, what path will he take? Continuation on from Lost Boy, Dancer, To Dance again and Dance on your Grave. Chapters 21 reposted
1. Chapter 1

Joe Byrne had retired in 2005, or as retired as an ex-spook ever is. He got called in for special cases or to help clear up any old mess when it reared its ugly head. He was of the same opinion as the Russians, Alex Rider was not something to be swept under the rug, but one of his few regrets from forty years serving his country. He for one had expected the teen agents mental breakdown many years ago, but Alex had a habit of defying all expectations. This old man was not in New York at the behest of the Government or doing any Agency dirty work, no he was here doing the right thing. Luckily he had backup, all provided from one of the best clinics in the country and paid for by Paul Roscoe personally. Even he was on consultancy rates, after telling the billionaire he'd do this for free for his old friend. Now, he was being delusional thinking that Alex would accept him as anything other than the manipulative bastard he really was. The money only meant Paul Roscoe had legally contracted him to dance to his tune and not shaft Alex to some agency dungeon.

He thanked god that he had the foresight to have made a copy of Alex's contact reports from 2003-2005, a copy he'd deny having because that was strictly against company policy, but he'd been a government sanctioned liar his entire working career, so one more lie was nothing to him, even to his Commander in Chief. On his best behaviour he introduced himself to Alex's friend. "Ms Lola Hernandez, my name is Joe Byrne. I'm here about Alex, Aleksandr Makarov. He's not been well since before Christmas and I think he needs specialist help. There are a team of health professionals here, because we have assumed Alex is a danger to himself and others. I hope to god I'm wrong, but his recent behaviour has us worried that he's in a fugue state again. I'm here to beg your cooperation, because he knows you at this precise moment and he might not know me, not in his present state of mind."

The tall, striking and handsome woman was in two minds, as she owed Lexi so much. They had been friends during her bleakest years, when she had been on the streets. He was one of only a select few who had known her during her transition from Laurence to Lola. In fact, it had been Lexi who had called her that to begin with. ' _Laurence? You have to be kidding! Jesus, your parents gave you a real handle, worse than freaking Alexander. You look like a Lola to me. Call me Alex, Lex or Lexi. Whatever, just not Alexander_.' She had assumed wrongly that Lexi was transgender as well, only for him to state, ' _I lean on the male/more homosexual than bisexual side of the fence, I guess. To be truthful, I'm not really cool about the menstruating aspect, so yeah, male_ '.

The manager of Sorellina had already made up her mind that Lexi needed professional help. "When I was nineteen, Lexi was off back to London. I thought his visa had run out. He handed me more money than I have ever seen in my entire life, only to confess he didn't need his rainy day fund anymore as he was going to hook up with his number one guy and live happily ever after. His gift paid for my gender reassignment surgery and the start-up for this place. I am reluctantly going to agree to your proposal because I want my good friend back from out of that hole he's living in."

…..

Lola Martinez knew exactly what a fugue state was, she was a trained volunteer counsellor at the teen drop in centre. She also knew precisely who Lexi was as well and how far he'd fallen, from international ballet theatre star to where he had started out at seventeen, not quite the bottom rung of the ladder but not far off. The bottom of her friend's personal hole was drinking large amounts of vodka and taking every illegal high available. Lexi was still clean and sober otherwise she would have called his family straight away for back-up. He was functioning, but only just. The first thing she'd noted about him was the scar on his neck, just below his nasty beard.

The manager of the club showed her unexpected guest and his team through to the club floor, where a sad and forlorn figure dressed in ill-fitting clothes and with matted, dirty, dark hair and a shaggy scruff of beard was pushing his mop over the stage, in slow regular circles.

"All done, Lola. Needs about 20 minutes to dry before you show your future stars up." Alex picked up the bucket, before looking up, almost immediately dropped it with a crash with his mop also discarded to the floor. From tired slouch the janitor drew himself into a fighting stance, balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to strike with his eyes noting his lines to an exit and developing a plan of action to take each individual threat down.

Lola without fear stepped forward, she truthfully could not fight her way out of a paper bag. She had seen Lexi fight, as he could down a crowd of would be muggers and/or thugs with frightening ease of a black ops soldier. Byrne had even handed her a tazer, just in case and she hoped to God she did not have to use it, but Lexi was staring at the old guy and ignoring her. "Please sit back down, precious. It's an intervention for your own good. You aren't coping. You ain't the Lexi I know and love. It's not conspiracy theory time, I swear. Your guy Byrne is working for Paul Roscoe, as a PI. You know Paul, the guy you were at that fancy school in France with, you called him Mr. Moneybags."

The scruffy janitor sat down on the edge of the stage and cocked his head at his friend with a puzzled expression on his face. "Not getting arrested then? You know Patriot Act, go straight to Guantanamo Bay, do not pass go, do not collect 200 pounds or dollars or roubles etc, etc." He smiled "I thought you'd rumbled me for that job I did for the FSB Directorate 1… the Italian?"

Byrne wiped his face, for once glad he was not on the job. "Jesus H. Christ! What the fuck? You did the Kremlin job?"

Alex looked at his old boss blankly "Not exactly, I was in on the contract. I supplied the junk used by Alexandrov's spook squad. You know the guys even the secret police don't know about, only the rumour of the bogeymen. The capsules were part of the stash left by my dad from his SCORPIA days. They wanted to make the hit look like an outside job. The old guard wanted a new President, to get rid of the Italian's friend, as that guy wasn't listening to the guys who really hold the reigns of power and was getting too big for his boots. That old man, Alexandrov, he likes games, so do I. Come off it I was the most likely candidate in the room. No, they were nice about it, always a player… I gave the right impression as I already had a nice big target on my back. I drew your attention away from the power play and made you all second guess about Brezkin or Cortez. I would never say boo to a goose in Russia. Those guys are serious about making people, whole families and even towns disappear. Me, I'd have popped the guy in London, but their way was better. Maximum embarrassment for the guy they were really after, made him look weak. More fun definitely, got to take out that creep Maxim as well as a bonus." He was again telling another half truth, the stashes started by John and added to by Yassen, then Misha and still in occasional use by Alex.

The white haired retired spy master wiped his face and asked the big question "What did we miss Alex? What pushed you from that cocky, self assured kid to this? What did Brezkin do to you?"

From lucid and all there, Alex was again lost for a moment in his own memories thinking of Misha before he asked Byrne, "What do you need me to do? Point and press play. Misha, yeah, lovely Misha, I did anything he asked. Everything. He still left me. Too broken even for him."

Byrne was a smart enough guy to know, he was being played even now. Alex was trying to push his buttons. MI6 had fucked this kid up good and proper and he'd a hand in this debacle as well. Why was Alex pushing for prison, probably lying about the Kremlin job because hospital scarred the crap out of him. Shrinks got into your head and stirred everything around. Alex's head was full of horrors, he did not want disturbing. The dancer had spent over ten years jumping on that hurt and fencing it in with shitty relationships and the most controlling job on the planet to keep himself too busy to have to deal with that shit. The big inconsistency was that John Rider had no form using neurotoxins, and that particular poison was first noted in use a decade after the death of Hunter.

"Nice try Alex, I can smell your bullshit. I take it the FSB old guard used you as smokescreen but fuck Alex, let the clinic help. Get this stuff sorted or you'll be lost in your own personal hell forever. They threatened you in Moscow with personality modification. That's what scares you the most. Someone finishing the job of making you into an assassin like Yassen. I'm working for Paul Roscoe. That guy would never let anything bad happen to you. I can get him here, he's up at his offices in Midtown. That guy, more money than Midas, supplies communications hardware to the NSA, smart like borderline genius smart and more ruthless than even Alexandrov. I would not cross him. He's got your back. You want to be a janitor, that's fine, just you need to rest, get your shit together and Paul will get you the best fucking help on the planet."

Alex held out his hands. "I'll talk to Paul but 4-point limb restraints might be an idea. That shithead employed you so I might try and clock him one to teach him a fucking lesson. God, you really are a slippery bastard if you tracked me down here. I did not even tell Manfred about Lola. She, she gave me faith in humanity again when I was sixteen. I was still trying to decide if Maria was in for the long haul or just like everyone else. Cut and run rather than let myself get hurt." With his eyes on Lola, his instincts had been right that she would steer him right. "Ain't she a genuine saint, a real lady and more a sister to me than anyone since Jack." The young man smiled his friend, before turning back to scowl at the retired CIA chess master. "Hurt her or try to use her and I'll pay for my friends in Miami to clean you off the face of the Earth."

Like clockwork the padded straps were put on his wrists and ankles. The nurse piped up "You seem pretty together. This is overkill."

Alex smiled coldly with bright eyes fully alert, "Adrenalin, back in full operations mode. All shit compartmentalised. Full disassociation, how it's meant to be. Hi, I'm the assassin SCORPIA trained me to be. These.." as he held up the restraints "are all that is keeping you alive. Bare hands, kill you all, no problem." He looked at Lola, and his expression softened. "Did Byrne give you that tazer tucked into the back of your jeans? He did something right at last, because I'd rather be twitching and paralysed on the floor than hurt you, beautiful."

…..

Paul Roscoe put his mobile back in his jacket pocket; he was in two minds but decided not to call Luci. He would later once Alex was safe in a very secure location. His car pulled into a side alley, parked behind the unmarked ambulance and his driver opened his car door and his two security guards flanked the billionaire into the rear door of this very low rent establishment.

Just inside stood Joe Byrne, who in soft tones not to be overheard brought his temporary boss up to date with the situation. "Alex is with the nurses in the manager's office. All staff are on the main floor as auditions are underway. You can get Alex out and clear and you won't be overheard or disturbed. Your friend is slipping back into his transitionary personality, but we got Alex fully back for a while. He's restrained but that was all voluntary on his part. You and I know Alex wouldn't hurt us, but reading between the lines there's the possibility still that Brezkin did programme him. We do have a fully trained assassin hidden in the mix, but who knows. Everything is like sifting through half-truths for some real substance. Whatever happened in Australia, he has not spoken about. Sounds to me like he broke and caught himself before he killed that shitty boyfriend and his teenage bit on the side. So, I think most of the crap out of his mouth is attempts at distraction and he is shit scared he'll be lost to the demons in his head. He caught a glimpse of himself as Julius and well crash, crash, crumble, crumble. The Aussies let him go, because of their stupid visa situation. Now, he's our problem. Good luck in there. I got him for you. He's now all yours. Better I leave because I am the enemy in his eyes."

Alex was sat on the floor in Lola's office, leaning back against the filing cabinet as the sound of pop songs vibrated through the floor.

The room was decorated in late eighties glam gone to seed around the edges. Paul noted Alex briefly looked at him as he entered, but his friend looked awful. "You need a makeover, Mr. Friend. I guess this was the look you were sporting when Manfred found you in LA. Hobo-chic but with a touch of mad veteran mixed in."

The tall freckled blond business man frowned when no cutting response was fired back.

He crouched down and softly touched Alex's bound hands. "You in there, spy-boy?"

"I'm tired, so tired. Make everything stop, Paul. I want to be Sasha again. I like Sasha. Alex…. Alex is better off sleeping. Just in the background. Miss dancing so much. Can't go back… nothing left but smoke and ashes."

"Al, I promise it'll get better after a nice rest. There's a nice clinic upstate, near the Canadian border. Clean air, five star food and top notch accommodations. Went there myself in 2001, after Grenoble, when I was a paranoid son of a bitch, jumping at shadows. Do this as a walk in and you can walk out at any time. Just give it a try. Please, you have friends, your family love you. We want you back either as Sasha or Alex. It's up to you, trouble. A calm, quiet, safe place. Lola and everyone can visit. We can take it from there. You want to dance again, I'll buy you a theatre cause I know you'll fill the seats. You are a brilliant dancer, arranger and choerographer. You made your dreams come true after losing everything, you can do it again, but you need to heal first."


	2. Chapter 2

Lake View was the type of place you needed to be at least a multi-millionaire, royalty or an A-list star just to get referral. No one got followed by the press here. It was the antithesis of the well known rehab clinics with its strict no publicity policy. Paul Roscoe had been there for three visits over his lifetime and he was nowhere near as damaged as Alex. At fourteen, eighteen and at twenty-three, the survivor of a kidnapping and murder plot had visited to touch base when his paranoia and guilt reared its ugly head.

For their latest guest, there had been no fight, only complete compliance as the former dancer was driven north and signed in as a voluntary patient. Paul had told the staff to treat his friend with kindness and compassion. It was a must that all clinical decisions be taken with their patient's agreement. Alex needed choices and the certainty he was safe and did not need to run. He needed to stop running and take stock, to give him time to heal.

….

After two weeks of intensive therapy, Alex relented and allowed visitors. Paul true to his word had found him a clinic more spa and five star resort than prison, it was tranquil and the time here without distractions had allowed the exhausted man to think and reflect. The senior therapist was unrelenting in her pursuit of all that Alex denied or avoided. She could smell a half truth hidden under a mountain of bullshit. No stone unturned, the mess of truth vs national security forgotten. The former spy wondered how many seriously fucked up people she had pulled back from the edge of despair. It was not all work, as Dr. Braun could also beat Alex at poker, so Anne had really earned his respect. The woman, more wily spinster aunt than maternal and was always clear and concise of her aims and goals and encouraged her guests to have the same holistic approach. She had spoken of her lifetime of work with victims of abuse, torture and trauma. She was working here rather than in a large teaching hospital as she was in semi-retirement. Only working on specific cases. Alex guessed she had been brought in just for him by Paul.

The first visitor had been Lola, who must have rigged it that she was first on the list.

"So, looking much better Lexi. Eat and sleep done, now accept my love. Your mom and dad will come up on Sunday. Before you start with your denial bullshit, they have accepted you as their non-biological son; the good and the bad, unconditional bond, so the real deal in my book. We both know biology be damned. Both are wonderful guys. They might bring Pyotr." The woman shrugged and put her hand under her chin. "So, the scrubs are better than the army surplus, I love you rocking that pastel vibe. Even so, I think you need a makeover. That always cheers me up. That and shopping. At least, loose the beard honey. Needs a serious trim if you're into facial fuzz and hipster vibe. Don't get me started on your hair. At least that dark brown dye is removable. You are a natural blond, and your roots show it, beautiful; and its a crime to hide it. I can spot a dye job and yours sucks big time." she then sipped her cup of coffee. She was fine doing all the talking, but decided to ask how he was doing in a non direct way. "Are you dancing, sugar?"

Alex pondered that. "No... Just Yoga, stretches, nothing high impact. It's one of my big control issues, that and not eating right. It's part my long term action plan, to dance again, just not a priority now. Mind, body, soul. Might not dance professionally because I need to put me first. I can think about teaching or something less stressful." He knew he was frowning. "I need to be sure it's what I want, what I need first. I ... I love creating and acting. It is so beautiful, but it still is working off stage, you know. I could even direct your shows as floor manager and arranger. It still art, creating and a show. Either one performer on the street or a whole orchestra and company like the Bolshoi or at Sydney."

He looked intently at the handsome woman who was his first true friend, as Sabina and Tom had proved to be the fair weather kind and all others were barely even pen friends which he lost contact with when he ran. Lola had accepted him at his paranoid worst . She was not a lover or teacher, spy or criminal, one who did not care if he danced or stole, cleaned floors or hustled as long as he was happy. "So, you gonna style me. The scrubs are staying, I'm afraid. I like them, neutral. Remember when you thought I was just as beautiful as you, a butterfly emerging from her chrysalis. Life would have been simpler, if I were able to put everything awful behind me when I started dancing seriously." With a pause, Alex considered his own chosen names; all gender-neutral: Alex, Sasha, Lex or Lexi. "I feel neutral now, not empty or nothing but I'm done trying to fit in a mould. I am and thats it. Not male lead, not a soloist, not boyfriend to either gender, not victim or survivor. Just me. I want to look like me again."

"I'm your girl for that, but as I said, that beard just is not Lexi on any level."

With the full cooperation of the staff, Lola cut Lexi's hair. Then trimmed his beard enough for the razor to remove the rest.

In the glass was the reflection of a tired, thin man, who was Alex, no longer hiding behind Sasha. Alex looked, as in really looked at himself for the first time in over six months. His hair was short, not as short as the brutal cut he received before going to Point Blank. There was no earring in his ear. Blond hair cropped to an inch in length. Lola had softened the affect of the cull by making the lengths softly uneven, for a feathered effect. It was a pixie cut. Alex smiled as he was a lost boy and now looked like he could escape to Neverland. He was definitely back to being himself now his beard had been shaved off. It was a different man than that reflection in Australia, no hint of psychotic avenging angel. He had sad eyes, the same eyes of the broken man left after Cairo, because he had ceased being a boy long before Yassen died.

The greyness of his skin around his eyes was jarring. A touch of concealer would work wonders. "My stuff is in storage here. I need my toiletries. Not my clothes though. I think I hate all my clothes. No, Lola needs to cull my stuff. I have my wallet. Use my Bank of Zurich card and get me a personal shopper. Pocket wardrobe has always been my style. Two suits and no more than thirty other items. I think need new smalls as well."

Lola smiled at that word. "That is so darling. "Smalls". I take it those are gender neutral also. I promise to account for every cent. Budget?"

Alex thought for a moment. He had spent over $2000 on one of his suits. "No more than a couple of grand. My suits are OK, at a push. So are my shoes, well I normally wear trainers for full support and comfort. Think soft, nice on my skin, sensual. Also, any underspend is yours and take $250 as your fee. Don't think I need this right away, just for the next time you're free to visit. You came by plane didn't you?"

"Oh, Lexi baby. Paul has a whole hanger full of planes. He is generous to a fault. Picked up by car, first class all the way. I could get used to a life like that."

…

The penthouse was at the pinnacle of a modern gleaming tower of glass, a recent addition to the city's skyline after Maria's death. A perfection of interior design: sleek, functional and cold. The only thing out of place was the Steinway by the window with the river view and overlooking Queens. It was Paul's New York Home. The piano had been his grandmother's. The billionaire only spoke to his mother through lawyers, having 'divorced' her at the age of sixteen. Irreconcilable differences. The reason the Grief clone that woman had welcomed as her son. That clone had died the pervious fall, shot during a robbery at the gas station where he had been on work placement after parole.

It had been a tough decision but Alex had chosen not returned home to the apartment on the Upper West Side, to live with his family. This neutral space in midtown with art worth millions on the wall, was a temporary refuge. The ex-dancer was unsure about job hunting or getting his own place and the ever generous Paul had emailed his friend a list of his own homes, with a choice of twenty five locations from this penthouse with five bedrooms and roof garden to his other favoured homes in the Hamptons, Aspen, Martinique and Carmel. To his business stopovers in London, Berlin, Berne, Paris, Sydney, Tokyo and Seoul. The other properties on the list were in more remote locations and holiday locales, bought as investments; including two islands. Alex pondered the estate in the Highlands of Scotland, the one place no one would ever expect him to go to as the one time home of Desmond McCain bought at a knock down price after that man's death.

The billionaire had not been the only person to offer sanctuary to Sasha Makarov, no, other friends and art lovers in locations from Europe to the southern hemisphere and the final offer of an apartment at the Kremlin or a dacha south of Moscow from Dima, now risen to the rank of major and stationed in some top secret base in the Far Eastern reaches of Russia.

The ex-ballet dancer had been sheltered from the media storm and public interest generated by his disappearance and three months of seclusion in a clinic. Pyotr had taken over his brother from another continent's social media, posting up dates, selfies and messages to friends and fans alike. Today, was going to be his first interview since his breakdown last December. He had dressed simply in soft wool slacks and a grey cashmere wrap around sweater and had chosen not to cover the scar on his neck. In preparation for meeting Desdemona Grosmont, he brushed his short hair forward and ruffed it into soft spikes and had chosen to wear more dramatic make-up than normal, going for soft smokey eyes and a light base of only tinted moisturiser and powder. He had begun to appreciate changing his look subtly reflecting his mood, a physical mask rather than the more damaging psychological ones. His final adornment was a 2ct grey diamond stud earring, one of the few pieces of jewellery he had bought for himself whilst in Russia. He smiled at his softer, less masculine image. He had been papped at the weekend in Central Park with Luci, luckily the kids had been out of shot. The image on the front of a British tabloid, suggesting he was in transition. He laughed at his immediate self image as a towering 6'7" ballerina when en pointe in full white swan regalia like the Annie Lennox video.

He walked to the restaurant and saw the journalist sat studying her notes. From the stack of material it looked like the woman was writing a biography, not a short follow up feature article.

"Forgive me for this forest of notes. I find reading off screen headache inducing and have compiled a folder of your fan responces. You have been quite active keeping everyone informed."

Alex sipped his glass of cranberry juice before answering. "Not me posting personally, I wrote the messages and such, but everything was filtered through Pyotr. He showed me the interesting, touching and often emotional posts and I responded to connect with everyone how I was pulling myself out of the funk I was in. Not just severely depressed but really lost for the first few weeks. I cannot thank Annie, my therapist enough for her to meticulous work to detangle my hurt and layers of protection erected and encasing me since childhood that had completely smothered me in the end." The therapist had effectively stripped bare all of the programming and personality modifications instilled as a child by Ian and his actions. He had no need to hide who he was or what he loved. He was weaned off his former strictly structured lifestyle. Life was not an act of containment, but the freeflow of ever changing goals in pursuit and attainment of happiness. Before he had thought happiness was being static and unchanging with the suppression of all he wanted to deny and avoid about himself and his past.

He smiled openly at her enquiry about him changing his gender. "I am an openly bisexual male. My self image has relaxed because I have changed. Not training for over four months has drastically altered my body. People assume things about dancers, but you are the peak of physical fitness. Eight to ten hours a day, six days a week in the gym, in class, in rehearsal and performing. I still keep fit but at the moment its yoga, pilates and karate. In fact, I am pain free for the first time in years."

"Do you know what was causing your persistant pain?"

"Yeah, I had full medical, it turns out I have had a stress fractures in my lower left tibia. If it reoccurs I may need surgery." Right where his bone had been screwed back together after Kenya.

He enjoyed his choices for lunch and was pleasantly full. He had engaging and chatty, but was a rather in the dark on what the journalist was actually after. Rather than go straight back to the apartment, Alex walked through the Grand Central Station, buying a new journal and pens and browsing the cosmetics.

The piece was emailed through the next day and the resting dancer was bemused rather than upset by its overall bleak tone. He was, what he was. Life was continuing and he would refute he had been broken by it, just had a rougher ride than most. The impressions of his fellow dancers were woven through the piece, most hoped he'd start dancing again but a few only stated they hoped he was happy and well. The Daily News Journalist had spoken to Tania, who described in detail of her love for him but how he was damaged and controlled by the demons in his past. That, she was still regretting that she had tried but ultimately failed to provide the nurturing home and a family for him. She was quoted saying "That beautiful man mutilated himself as a teenager, denying himself the joy of fatherhood in the ultimate act of defiance to his late father, through his vasectomy and his repudiation of his rightful name." He had forgotten Tania called him her escaped paratrooper. General Alexei Sarov had been commander of the Siberian Paratroop Division. Vladimir Sarov had joined that same division as sniper only to be killed on his first posting, days before his eighteenth birthday. Tania then spoke of the horror he had told her in confidence, that he had been right in front of the General when he had committed suicide. That had been his first stay in a clinic for a mental breakdown. That little slip from her could expose everything that had happened before he ran away. Alex wrote a long letter to Boris, apologising that his ex-girlfriend had let that information slip. He then faxed the three pages of badly written Russian to the Kremlin press office with a cover sheet asking them to forward it to Premier Kiriyenko.

Three days later, the article was printed without that revelation. Boris had pulled strings to protect the reputation of his old friend. He had sent a note back to Aleksandr, stating women were spiteful and cruel if denied their hearts desire and that the children he had chosen not to father would more than likely have been as beautiful as he was. Alex crumpled the note, beauty was subjective, he was not the perfect son like Vladimir Sarov. Broken things were normally discarded. Tomorrow he would go back to class.


	3. Chapter 3

Vladimir Stravenkov had often wondered on Sasha's close friendship with Paul McAlaster, who on the surface was a club owner, entertainment entrepreneur and arts lover. The grey haired father of three was really a father of four, which had been Maria's plan all along to trick Sasha into a family, to give the feral teenager a taste of real home and a place to return when he decided to stop running. The rumours about paternity had started as soon as Maria accepted the boy and manoeuvring her old friend to look after her adopted son. Many still assumed Vladimir was Sasha's actual father.

The story in The Observer started by spinning Maria Makarova's connections to the old guard in Russia, her late lover had been high up in the KGB, her last husband died before he could take his seat on the Politburo, but he had been a major political player. Aleksandr Makarov's had been postulated as Alexei Sarov's bastard son in several Russian tabloids and the same speculations had made the rounds in the British press. This journalist, Leon Masters had put together a salacious scoop, stating Maria had taken Sasha under her wing after Boris Kiriyenko pleaded with her to get the sixteen year old away from his damaging relationship with Manfred Schnagel. The piece gave detailed descriptions of Sasha working for Paul McAlaster the entire time he lived in London between the ages of 18 and 22, as a stripper, an actor in porn films and as an escort. Money used to support Manfred Schnagel's dance company and later Sasha's own troupe.

None of Sasha's close friends talked to the journalist but the former female soloist for Manfred told of Sasha working for Paul and 'earning big bucks', too much to be just a stripper. The money handed straight to the Maestro to cover his mounting debts. It painted a picture of a young dancer falling back into prostitution and exploitation and being pimped by the German.

How was Manfred OK with this? Vladimir at the time had been reassured by Maria's friend, that Sasha was just working to get his Equity Card and on the books at Talent Agencies in the capital. He had never been party to the fact Manfred had been short of money. Sasha was independent and very resourceful, and saw no problem in using whatever skills he had to earn money, even borderline amoral and illegal work.

The article finished with the news Paul McAlaster gave generous donations to Manfred. Concluding Sasha working for Paul after Manfred's death was to finish paying off the German's debts. Sasha subsequent relationship history was summarised as falling in love and getting exploited, financially, physically and sexually.

Vladimir screwed the paper up, stifling a scream, thinking of the evil 'public interest angle'. Bastards were raking over the worst loss in Sasha's life. The boy Maria adopted had given his heart to that man and would without a second thought sold himself to keep that man's dream alive.

The Artistic Director gave the offending item to his assistant and let his anger go. "Time for class. I need reassure to Sasha. That article is just evil"

"There are a couple of reporters outside and Sasha is already in the practice room. I think he's been there a couple of hours. The cleaners must have let him in"

Vladimir laughed "Sasha has even shown Pyotr and Gregori, how to bypass the alarm and pick the locks to get in here. He told why upgrade to state of the art locks as who the hell wants to break into a crummy dance studio. Put good locks on and people think you have something to steal."

The room was filling with the Company Dancers and the boss could see the former junior soloist and one time guest artiste of his small company was covered in a sheen of sweat from hours of work. Vladimir decided to keep this conversation public and spoke in English "Punishing yourself or creating, Sasha darling?"

"Bit of both, actually. I have an idea for a series of pieces, my own variation. I might get some music composed especially for it. Autobiographical… maybe a bit of Maria's journey as well. All in Marek's style. My premise is what would the world might have been like if Graham and Veshin had met?" Wiping a towel on his face Alex smiled "I owe you a bit of rental, as I've been using your space for free not at the proper hourly rate." Alex frowned he was nearly through all his savings accrued while working as a dancer in Russia and Australia, he was not worried as he still had plenty of liquid assets, but he really did not want to touch the money left to him by Ash, Ian or John. "I've got a couple of modelling jobs lined up, I signed up with an agency. They were very enthusiastic about using me. Paul's cool with me staying at his place. So, I'll be earning enough to get by."

Alex wanted to bury his head in the sand but Vladimir was standing there wanting a response, expecting a meltdown probably. In almost a whisper he spoke, but everyone present was listening, while pretending to be busy stretching; "The piece in the Observer is cruel beyond words, cheapening my feelings for a man who only wanted me to dance and to be happy. I can swear on all Maria held dear that I was completely monogamous with Manfred, I did not stray. He was my world. My work for Paul was all hands off, no John ever touched me. That changed after … when I was alone. After Bernd treated me like a whore warming his brother's bed. I wonder how Manfred's family is taking the fact that I paid off Manfred's considerable debts. Mortgage, food, utilities and council tax in Deptford all paid for by the boy they kicked out. I was planning on selling my house in Chelsea to fund his ballet tour of America." The dancer turned his back on the man who had assumed the role of father figure and moved to his place at the bar. Work before the mess of his personal life. Just enough truth in the paper to be fact and more than enough lies to hurt everyone that had loved Manfred. He smiled at his reflection in the wall of mirrors and at Vladimir. "Madam Cin phoned last night. She's posted a real whopper of a response on the paper's twitter page. Not one swear word but completely dressing down of the reporter in question. Poor guy has to face Edward at work as well."

Vladimir moved to hug his and his wife's cuckoo, who was hurting but had moved past his grief long ago.

At the end of class, Alex left the rest of the team to their rehearsals. He went to see Ms. Loewe, Vladimir's long suffering first wife and firm friend, who still handled all her ex's press.

He was sat in her reception area as Dianne walked in to greet the Stravenkov's cuckoo with "Look the stray dog has come to visit. What can I do for you? I can guess it's a response to the piece Vladimir wanted me to sue the Brits over."

"Yeah, I need your advice to put out a statement or a responding piece. Manfred dying was the worst thing that has ever happened to me. Worse than my uncle shitting on me as a kid, worse than finding out my birth mother was murdered by her supposed friend, worse than Misha selling me to a fucking psycho, worse than cold turkey or worse even than going completely nuts last December and loosing bits of myself in the process."

The woman who had never warmed to this strange interloper, felt empathy with that description. "Worse than coming off drugs, shit I did controlled withdrawal and it was horrific. Come, talk, we'll see how to work this. Corinne, hold my calls and order in some lunch. Come into my inner sanctum Sasha and tell me everything."

….

Leon Masters took several steps back after the slap he'd just received from Edward Pleasure's irate wife. A woman who then blanked the cowering man to focus on her amused husband. "Take me out to lunch now that I've got that off my chest." The woman coldly appraised her husband's work colleague. "Your piece was deeply flawed. You missed the most important piece of the puzzle. Sasha and Manfred had booked their civil partnership ceremony for that August, sent out invitations to their select friends and family two days before Manfred's death. I have mine here. Sasha wrote 'For Sabina's milf mummy and her loser husband'… Sasha had been close friends with our daughter between the ages of 14 and his running away at 15. Marriage is sharing and sometimes fully supporting your partner. You do anything for the ones you love. Manfred was checked out, as in full background check by one of Sasha's school friend's. Yes, that school, the very exclusive one for bad boys with very rich or influential parents. The three PI's concluded there was no hint that their relationship was anything but loving and caring despite the age difference. Next time check your facts, it'll be less painful in the long run. You won't tread on any parent's toes."

Edward then looked at Darren still trying not to laugh, but he still said his piece, "I'd be more worried about Paul McAlaster, myself. You went to town on him and he really likes Sasha and was Manfred's close friend. Sasha's ex Danny, the bouncer, has interesting form… arrested on multiple counts of ABH, GBH, Assault with a deadly weapon, Attempted murder and released without charge every time."

…

Laura-Cate Danvers was a person to know in Hollywood as a former Studio Head and boss of the talent agency all on the up wanted to be signed to. As soon as the press release regarding Sasha Makarov's rebuttal crossed her desk she was wheeling and dealing. Sasha had saved her son's and her lives in 2001, a debt she still owed and if she could get the dancer to LA she would move mountains to get him starring in a A-list movie, if he was wanting to act. She emailed the magazine editors, who dealt with both arts and LGBT+ stories; the producers of the Tonight Show and the top Afternoon chat shows. Sasha's story would be spun in the most sympathetic light, making that normally PC newspaper seem homophobic in the extreme. She pressed number one on her speed dial, to her son Cassian. "Afternoon pumpkin , can you fit in an early dinner or very late lunch with Mommy dearest? I need your sage advice."

…

The first afternoon show had insisted he dance as well. He picked the shortest solo in the Leningrad Variations as it was the most athletic and very dramatic. Helped by the fact he could wear loose fit trousers and shirt as a costume. Nothing overtly ballet. Still neutral enough not to jar.

"Wow, that was incredible. I'm a fan of dance but that was stunning. Not what you expect from a Soviet Russian piece at all."

"Marek choreographed that after being black listed for his suspect cultural influence. He was a fan of jazz and modern dance. He was lucky to escape internal exile. His early work had been the favourites of Stalin's second wife, a fact that saved him from the Gulag."

"Are you back on the stage?"

Alex pondered this "That was the first time I have danced for an audience since my breakdown last year. I have no agent at the moment as I am still officially resting. Not helped by the fact I also wrote an abrupt letter to my lovely agent, Ludmilla before my disappearing act. I was also shockingly rude to Viktor Turgeniev, which was not the smartest thing I have ever done. I have a lot of apologies to dole out for my very erratic behaviour and the excuse that I was not in my right mind seems so lame in hindsight. The fact is most people who know me have been expecting that breakdown since I was 15. I was diagnosed with Disassociative Identity Disorder at 21. So, working and performing is in the pipeline as I still live to dance, but I have a few bridges to mend first."

Then the woman moved on to more serious matters, "You have been quite open about your troubled past the fact you were a victim of pedophiles at boarding school at 14, then a serial runaway, drug addict, alcoholic and sex worker."

Alex smiled and then paused to try and politely describe going from unhappy boy to a lost one. "I have nothing to hide. It happened. Nothing I do can undo what happened. So, I got packed off to that elite academy in France which was meant to straighten me out after getting arrested a month after my uncle died. Turned out to be the start of the slippery slope down. I wasn't singled out, all the boys were drugged, stripped, videoed and photographed. I tried to escape and well they threatened to cut me to pieces. I still have vivid nightmares about that and I'm not the only alumni to still be in therapy. I started drinking that Christmas because I was completely alienated at school, unwanted and unhappy. I really did try to give up drinking a couple of times after Easter, but things got worse not better. How do you describe grooming? I was serious depressed at the time and crippled with self hatred. I had left behind a nice normal foster home to live on the streets. I was so low and then some random guy pays you compliments, who takes you out, tells you you're wonderful and you think he's the best thing ever. I fell in love. My first boyfriend was also my first pimp. Most people get fixated on the sex aspect. The sex, the rapes, were not the worst. Its the threats, the fact you are powerless and deprived of hope, the real crime is the fact you are dehumanised and backed into a corner with no escape. You learn to join the party and that has become your new normal. Drink, drugs, sex. I was lucky I got out because of the DEA bust in Miami. I was high as kite and the guy who'd just bought me was showing me my place. So, I was 15 in hospital and then rehab. My placement team decided on military academy. First chance they lowered their guard I was out of there like a shot. Once bitten, twice shy. Being a rent boy on the streets was better than boarding school. I'd hitched to LA. Misha, my former pimp had a place there, but he was long gone."

"So you were on the streets when you met Manfred?"

"Oh that sounds like he picked me up… No, nothing like that. I had hitched west and had only been in LA two days, I was watching a dance class, copying the positions from the street and he saw me and offered me the use of his studio. I'd done ballet as a kid. Had loved it, really loved it. My uncle, well he turned down my place at the Royal Ballet School stating it was not a proper hobby never mind career choice for a proper man. Dance was one thing untainted by my shitty existence. I think Manfred was being completely altruistic, because lets face it I was skinny as hell, jumpy, filthy and feral. He fed me offered me a place to stay, in his spare bedroom, taught me all about dance, and introduced me to a proper ballet teacher, Maria Makarova, who became my mother. He saw me as a kid, a talented dancer; one who needed a helping hand. Not as meat, a meal ticket or booty. I think Manfred had become stuck in a rut and I made him question his life choices and he went back to being an artist not a wage slave after we met. We saved each other."

"You were in a relationship after you moved into his home in England. You did become lovers?"

"Yeah, it was a slow progression. When I lived with Maria, we talked, emailed, it was a friendship and mentorship. Neither of us even considering anything more. I had a series of really negative auditions for ballet companies when I was 17 in New York. He encouraged me, told me to hold to my dreams, not to be forced anywhere I did not want to be. I think I'd started to fall for him through those conversations, he was so positive and got that I had chosen a hard path, by refusing to adhere to the expectations of others. He had moved to London to start up a dance company and I had nothing going for me in New York. In fact, I felt really awful because Luci and Vladimir were both trying so hard to get me settled and dancing professionally; they were burning through favours and contacts to no avail. As my eighteenth birthday approached I decided to try another avenue, so I moved back to London to dance for Manfred for love and worked as a stripper and exotic dancer to pay the bills. What is everyone's beef about me removing my clothes to dance, I've danced classical ballets in nothing more than a glorified cod piece and its art. Do the same in a club its exploitation. So, I was 18 and living with Manfred. I had perfection in both work, I had followed my dream and had a wonderful partner, who was there for me 110%. I was so lost when he died. We were planning our civil partnership. Any of my friends will tell you I was destroyed by his death, only with the full support of my 'unofficial' family' the Stravenkov's did I pull through that blip. Vladimir got me sober and with the help of the guys in London I came back to dance again. We, the few left of the dance company, started again from scratch. I knew I could choreograph, stage and dance and no one was stopping me. I carried on because of Manfred, he was my reason to keep trying, to keep going to auditions and to be a classical dancer. Never in a million years did I expect my break to be at the Bolshoi."


	4. Chapter 4

LA, a place Alex hated with a passion, but he was sat holding a bunch of roses for Cassian's mother, as his taxi pulled up to the large house, a real movie star mansion, behind huge gates and tall wall in Bel Air. During his first visit, Misha had described his love of the large urban sprawl, the smog and anonymity of this mega city. They had stayed in his apartment off Mulholland, the complete opposite end of the social scale from here. That Alex had been a love struck fool. He should have sought out Cassian then, asked for help; an alienated teen sure he had nowhere to go. Would Bryne have helped him then? No, even after Miami they still wanted their weapon, they only saw the trained operative not the broken child, the boy destroyed by Ian long before the threats and lies of Alan Blunt.

A maid opened the door to a large airy hall, cool and elegant, styled like a French Country House in its faux Baroque splendour. Marble, gilded wood and plaster, cherub encrusted mirrors and Italian chandeliers, Alex almost would prefer the shabby studio across town. He looked at his reflection, he was dressed in a suit, he pulled off the jacket and felt better with bare arms and the just the pale ivory silk top, a gift from Luci. She understood how he had softened into the man he should have been, rather than the warped image of his previous incarnation, trying hard to be normal, invisible, an everyman, what others expected. Ian had taught him to hide in plain sight to adapt to every situation. He was no longer that chameleon. He had freedom, but that journey had cost him his career. The ghost of Maria Makarova was whispering the word 'Maverick' in his ear. He was not here for the promise of fame or the lure of immortality as only Hollywood could guarantee. He was here to discuss music with Cassian, who now worked as a composer and arranger.

The serious boy had grown into a tall, thin man with long face with large nose, both of which were half hidden by a curtain of soft long curly hair. "Hey man, drop your bags. Connie, please put the flowers in water, I think the tall Lalique vase would work best and then put them on the side table in mom's office. Blue roses, she'll adore them, you sly fox. You better not try and seduce her. I remember your comments about Sab's mom. What was it 'sexy lady, why can't she be after a Mrs. Robinson moment'. Lets retire to the kitchen and relax. Tell me what brought you to the City of Angels?"

After sandwiches and cokes, the two boys were in the music room, as the second reception room had been styled into a make shift recording studio, with serious sound system and editing suite, vinyl collection, baby grand, two synthesisers and a variety of guitars. "As you can see, Mommie Dearest spoils me. I have been a home body since my last stint in rehab, by which we mean serious psych sessions. You, me and Paul have all revisited clinics because of long term psychological problems. I have since ditched my loser friends and am no longer actively dating. I'm trying to write up my doctorate and need something to get my mojo working. I score terrible TV movies and straight to video rom coms, it pays ridiculously well for the pastiche shit I call music. You said you had an unusual proposition. Spill."

"I wish to see what you make of this piece, my idea is for you to compose three twenty- to thirty minute pieces based on a recurring folk song derivation and I'm after a real connection, not pastiche." Alex sat at the piano and unfolded two photocopies. He could play piano, just another of the skills he had learned post-MI6. He was an adequate musician, both reading music and in terms of rhythm and timing, but not a patch on Cassian. He played the slow, melancholy piece. It was like an overture or a key melody or theme to a long lost or unfinished work.

The accomplished pianist listened and when Alex stopped he suddenly wanted to hear more. "Short, unusual and beautiful. I take it those two pages of manuscript are all you have?"

"Yeah, I can only tell you I think its part of a symphony by Artur Kolinsky, he committed suicide in 1954. All his manuscripts and journals were burnt by his father as they were morally corrupt, after he was expelled from the Moscow Conservatoire. Those sheets of music were in a letter he wrote to Maria shortly before he died. That letter had never been opened and was hidden in one of her books. I didn't find it until I cleared out her apartment after she died. I kept the book and the letter. I think I'm the only person apart from the composer to play that piece."

Cassian had picked up the photocopy to cast his eye over and then asked his friend "I take it you have already started to choreograph to this?"

"Yeah, might go and see Cyn for her words of wisdom and then find other dancers. I think it will be for a trio or a quartet. So, are you interested in this commission?"

"Yeah… give me a couple of weeks, longer if you want full orchestration."

"Err, no to that.. maybe piano and a quartet but nothing more than that. Small and intimate rather than big and grand."

"Can you show me you're work to date or is all hush hush?"

"Lets go out onto the patio and I'll give you the prelude of my work to date."

….

Alex watched as the lighting was set up and the set decorated to the photographers exacting demands by the young assistant, Mia. Here, he was modelling for Viktor Turguniev, the former ballet star now an artist, in oils and acrylic, and photographer. Alex had been to a couple of exhibitions of the man's work before the interview at the Arts Centre and their terse and abrupt conversation. Prior to that their interactions had been simple greetings and small talk, as the older defector had been unsure of Maria's strange protege.

The dancer stood back watching all intently, as he was completely unsure of what the photographer wanted as he had not been styled, wore no make up and there seemed to be no chosen wardrobe. He had arrived in his functional warm up clothes from class, nothing stylish, designer or remotely fashionable.

With everything finally setup, Viktor turned to his model. "I must thank you for your very lovely apology, but you have nothing to apologise for and giving me one of Maria's precious books is a gift beyond price."

Alex wondered on this and decided to be honest about the 19th century publication on early Kirov ballet choreography. "Its a very technical and difficult book that I've never been able to get into, not helped by my frankly abysmal reading and writing skills in Russian. I have had no formal schooling in the language, just learned to speak it from Dima, the General and Misha."

"The General?"

"Boris Kirilenko's best friend, the Siberian paratrooper, who died in 2001, in Murmansk… abusive, insane arsehole. I won't speak his name; in fact I refuse to acknowledge him at all if I can help it. In Ancient Egypt that was the worst fate possible was to be made nameless, to be denied an afterlife or any remembrance."

Viktor knew exactly who Sasha was talking about and wondered what this General had done for his 'son' to repudiate him so, "Such hate?"

"Not really, more like complete disregard, that person means nothing to me." Alex then crossed his arms, his face blank and his body language closed off.

The older man then motioned for Alex to sit down on the set. "Start with baseline shots, its wonderful that you came straight here from class. You still train with Vladimir I take it?"

"Not today, I took class across town with the Madam Lorenz." Alex had been taking advantage of Vladimir and his unfaltering generosity. "I have a life plan and while stressed I overwork… I have removed myself from that situation. Better I rent out rehearsal space and keep within my suggested limits. Which is the reason I'm not back working. Still not well, coping just, but definitely not thriving"

The afternoon progressed, to more artistic shots, nude. Alex removed his clothes, he was about to be photographed naked in his full unedited glory, not one scar covered up with make-up. He had long since lost his hatred for this body, moved on to an uneasy acceptance. The decent plastic surgery had helped, but you could still see burns, knife marks, surgery scars and the evidence of the attempted assassination on his chest and under his left arm pit.

He stood with no shame and observed the dawning of horror on the photographer's face. "These are all from your childhood?"

"Yeah, Maria wept the first time she saw me naked. So, did Sabina, my foster sister, from before Misha… She was so horrified she stopped talking to me, couldn't relate. I had become adept at hiding because of my disfigurement, but she caught me off guard, walking into the bathroom as I was washing." Alex was suddenly back at that moment when he had realised he would never fit in, never be a carefree teenager, never be a member of the family. "Yeah, I knew I was a freak after Murmansk. I stopped trying to hide the fact when I started self medicating. Adults, then, just chose not to see the fact I was lost, thinking Alex was still there, somewhere."

Alex sat again, his back towards the camera. "These are much improved, overall. I had two visits to a plastic surgeon to reduce the scarring, which made the ridges flat and the freaky ones look less freaky. Well three visits if you count my nose job in London. Funny, I told the guys I'd been mugged to explain the black eyes and bandages, not the three grand I spent to have a straight nose again. The guy in Miami had done a basic job, but I wanted my old nose back and this is a fair reconstruction." He shrugged, not quite the Rider honk he was after and more Sarov by mistake rather than design.

After the tragic figure of Sasha Makarov had left, Viktor viewed the images of a body tortured and broken before he had come to New York in 2003. The scars reduced and softened, what had Maria seen? No wonder the American Ballet Theatre had balked when he auditioned there at 17 and having no qualms to perform the Corsaire solo without body makeup. It spoke volumes about Sasha, brave, confrontational and unapologetic. For child to have suffered so much physical and emotional trauma there was no wonder he was so delicate as Ludmilla put it.

….

Within ten days of their meeting, Cassian had sent through a recording and the sheet music for this special commission with an invoice for $3750 and a note 'loved working on this so only charged cost for studio time and the hire of a quartet. Consider this a gift. Keep well, all my love Cass'. Three twenty-seven minute pieces, all melancholy in tone. The theme distinct and yet different as timing and the key subtly changed. The influence of modern jazz worked in as they had discussed. The choreography would be modern; flowing, sexual and confrontational. He listened to the music and played it himself badly on Paul's Steinway several times to memorise every nuance and then started to detail his ideas for movement as notation in his new journal.

He had not slept for two days, when he strolled into the rehearsal space used by Vladimir's dance troupe, near the Times Square. Sasha had worked and rehearsed with these dancers over the last few years. The soloists were all friends of Luci and Vladimir, more of a close knit dancing family than mere co-workers. The misfit and one time guest dancer stood and went through his ideas for his new piece to sound it out with his contemporaries before approaching the big boss himself, Vladimir Stavenkov. Marlon was the first to interrupt "Are you manic, Sasha? Its obvious you haven't eaten or slept in a while. Or are you wired?"

Karen then held up her hand to shut the youngest soloist up; to speak in soft, easy tones, trying to be den mother. "Come sit in the office, I'll make you a cup of tea. Vladimir will be here before 10. Maybe you can try and get some rest in the mean time?"

Alex stepped back, stunned at the response to his big idea for a new larger work and came back with his standard "I'm fine," before processing the fact they thought he was caught in a moment. "So wait, none of you want to discuss my work and you all think I'm fucking crazy.."

All present nodded, some more reluctantly than others, but they were all in agreement.

Alex looked at himself in the mirrors, as if to reassure himself that he was really here, no fugue or emotional break, just him being enthusiastic and within his normal operational parameters. No, he was 100% there, no doubts or confusion. He felt all his joy and need for acceptance leave him, he was on his own and he stared down his accusers "Right, fine, fuck you all!"


	5. Chapter 5

In the mire of hurt and anger, Alex knew nothing had changed in the ten years he had worked as a professional dancer. He was judged by the fact he was not what anyone wanted or expected from a ballet dancer. He was trying move from dancer to choreographer, but to what avail if no one would take him seriously. He could not rely on Vladimir, who was compromised by his decision to stand by this outsider. He would create, but his works would remain as notes on a page unless he himself changed that inevitability. Here, in New York he was banging on the same doors that had closed as soon as Maria died. He was no longer a curiosity, a muse or even credible. All that time in therapy to put himself back together and he could no longer work in the medium he loved.

He was running in the gym at Paul's penthouse and considered either starting afresh here or running again. He would be better going cold turkey and give up the pipe dream of dancing or working with any company at any level. This time do it properly with no trail and without Paul tracking him. The easiest way for that to happen was to be completely honest with Paul and keep him in the loop. If he knew his friend was coping and maybe even thriving then he would leave him be and let sleeping dogs lie.

Alex knew all about how to move across borders without official papers being checked, you just needed soft exit and entry points. He had to play travel hopscotch, not direct, he pondered the world map on the wall of Paul's office. How to get from A to B without anyone in B being aware he crossed the border? Planes, trains and automobiles, were mixed and in. It would take one to two weeks rather than eleven hours before he would be at his destination.

A quick email to Paul's PA and the former dancer had his friend's itinerary. He would travel to LA to see Cassian, then steal a car and drive to Mexico City, travel from there to either Panama, Venezuela or Belize as a tourist and cross the Atlantic to Warsaw, Frankfurt or Paris to enter the EU using his British passport. He would use public transport from then on.

….

Pyotr's phone bussed, it was a message from Sasha, "going to visit Cass, will be off grid for a few weeks. Don't worry."

…

Paul hated staying in hotels but it was a necessity on occasion. He was brokering a deal to purchase a small Polish firm specialising in corporate encryption. It was his personal goal that Roscoe Industries remain the market leader in that field. At five star hotels, he always booked an entire floor and his security team always did a full check prior to him returning after his meetings. Decoy locations were also booked as well.

After an afternoon of negotiations and legal wrangling, the tall bond American was tired and wanted nothing more than to sit watching sport or a mindless blockbuster while eating a rare T-bone steak with plain green salad and fries accompanied by drinking a glass or three of decent Pinot Noir, either French, Californian or at a push Chilean. First a shower, hot with decent water pressure and long enough for him to forget the million things he was working on or in the possibility for the future pile. His five PA's would only disturb him if their was a major catastrophe. Any enquiries needed to pass through those highly paid and ruthless individuals first.

The suite was ready, according to his exacting demands. The right temperature, subtle lighting, drapes closed, soft jazz playing at a low enough volume not to jar on any level. No fresh flowers or overt scents. Bedding and towels supplied from his own team and the bed was already turned down. Toiletries from his preferred Parisian brand in the bathroom, new sealed bottles every evening.

He went straight from the main room to the bedroom, taking off his jacket and dropping it on the floor. He would wear a fresh one tomorrow. He was thinking of his shower when he was jarred from his routine by a whispered enquiry "How's your paranoia, Paul?"

He turned startled to the intruder before recognising Alex Rider sat by the window in the armchair by the desk, illuminated in the pool of light from the corner lamp.

"Fuck, Al! Way to give me a heart attack. I bet you were here during the security sweep."

Alex smiled at his friend's discomfort. "Yeah, walked right past me. Your guy was not on the ball at all. In fact, they were very complacent. I snuck in with the cleaners and have spent the afternoon eating your fruit and drinking your very nice mineral water. Left your skittles though. Never liked the sour ones myself. I slept on your couch. I would never disturb those perfect hospital corners. Please note I left your desk and safe alone."

Paul continued to strip off his shirt and tie intent on taking his shower, "I should pay you for shaking up my team, because I hate loop holes."

"Thats your paranoia talking. There's possibly only a handful of people able to crack your security and I knew exactly where you were staying because I'm on your personal contact list and I know less than a dozen people are privy to that information." Alex smiled and licked his lips provocatively, only to see Paul roll his eyes at the blatant innuendo. "If it'll help you sleep safe tonight, I'll act as your personal body guard, if you want. I would love to see your security teams reaction when they pick you up tomorrow to find me here, when I'm still thought to be in LA partying with Cassian. My lookalike there is drinking like a fish and snorting enough cocaine to give the impression I'm fifteen again. Helped by the fact Cassian is fucking him as well. Misdirection is brilliant."

"Don't go there Al, you're too fucking scary." Paul stated quite honestly. Doubly so when Alex decided he wanted a tumble and got that predator look on his face. The one time the ex-spy had propositioned him he had been really polite but he was definitely not brave enough to cross that clearly defined boundary.

"Ahhh, I keep offering Paul, you always turn me down, so you can't talk. Cass likes casual fucks only and says he's shit scared of me for some reason and well I like bastards and bitches myself and none of you guys fit into that category. Well, you do… but as I said you didn't want to try the goods." Alex had tried and failed to seduce Paul when they had first reconnected in 2003, when 17 year old Alex had gatecrashed Paul's 18th birthday party extravaganza. Paul projected the image of a man with a heart of stone, who trusted few, but had a routine of sleeping with his PA's, who were as close as spouses to him.

Alex was hoping for a brief confab about setting his plans in motion and then would leave Paul to whatever international business men did to relax. Only the man ordered up dinner, wine and coffee, enough for both of them and gently coaxed the full story from his former lodger.

"My place in London, near Canary Wharf is free for you to use, spy-boy. I think the lodge in the Highlands is rented out to some sheik, Lulu emailed me but the property end of my holdings is not my top priority for keeping track of. So, off to see Cin, who's performing in Berlin, then visit Dieter in Dusseldorf before returning home to London?"

"Not London, not right away anyway. Going to see Sergeant Cooper, you know Cin's uncle first. He's also at a loose end. We've both been moaning about changing careers. I think I need broader horizons as the dance world is insular and full of gossips. My attempts to reintegrated not helped by the fact both Luci and her co-conspirator Ludmilla think I need wrapping in cotton wool and to do nothing more strenuous than occasional modelling or TV work. I hate modelling and interviews, they both set me on edge. Too many interrogations in my past. PTSD inducing at worst or just me wanting to let rip and spill the beans about everything, just for a laugh." Alex held aloft his glass of wine, appraising the dark red liquid; he'd managed a few sips but frankly still disliked the beverage intensely. "I feel good in myself, Annie has been the making of me. I should never have mixed dancing with my other life skills. I have no plans on working for Mr. McAlastair again. He cool with that and gets that I need to put my mental health first. I'm being selfish, but I have to work for me not others. I'll let you know when I decide to buy a place, I can guarantee it won't be in Chelsea. Dieter is handling my trust and accounts, as you know. I might just coast for a bit. I can turn my mind to anything and maybe going off at a tangent is just what I need."

"But you have worked on this ballet, got the music sorted and everything. You should not abandon your project completely. Consider passing it on to Martika, Graeme or Director Titov."

"Maybe, not just yet. It needs tweaking anyway. You've been brilliant Paul. I can't thank you enough. I'll keep in contact and I'll be back in New York at Christmas, if you're there." Alex sat back and then stated "Thanks for this… you have my phone number and email. I'm not spending the night. I know you like your privacy and I'm staying in the old town at a lovely B&B. Don't worry about getting tense emails from Luci, I will speak to her before she tries to chase me down. I just have to say thanks, but I'm a big boy now."

…

As the London born American in Warsaw walked past the bars and restaurants in the town centre on his way back to his lodgings, he rang home.

"Can you forgive me for running again, Luci? I promise this time it was for all the right reasons, I needed to spread my wings and though I deny it, London is as much home as New York."

"Explain Cuckoo."

"I'm not going to waste my life trying to be a principal again or get accepted as part of a company at any level. I never fit, not really. I was always lying to myself. I'm going to just be for a while. I have good friends, I will socialise and concentrate on enjoying life. I will create, but at my pace. No stupid deadlines or pressure because I will always push myself too hard. I can't go at 110% all the time. That caused me to break as much as my fragile psyche. I will be home for Christmas, Paul promised me a free ride on his business jet on the 20th, so its only six weeks until I see you guys again."

"You sound better, like you've left the weight of expectation behind,"

"I maybe Maria's chosen son but I'm not Maria. She worked like a demon to control her own monsters, we were both very much alike, but I want to be happy again. I want my own partner, a family of two. I will really try not to date any creeps and Cin has promised to matchmake for me in Berlin. Her new hubby sounds dreamy, she's pregnant and so happy. I think adhering to more personal goals is more important than work. Not that I'm looking forward to house hunting, but I fancy getting a new apartment or mews near the West End."

….

The executive producer of a news/reality tv programme on the cable channel, Real Stories liked the scenario posed for the next series. To track down the elusive and erratic Sasha Makarov. The ex-ballet star had left New York abruptly, possibly suggesting another breakdown. Only this time the Stravenkov's were not looking for him. He could put money that the London born bastard of that cold fish Sarov was back in the city of his birth. He did not have the money to hire detectives but that dancer would turn up on social media at some point.

He did not have to wait long, a video was posted on youtube of a short contemporary dance solo filmed on the South Bank at dawn. Sasha had moved from the classical stage to guerrilla performance artist. When the producer viewed the piece it had already gained nearly a quarter of a million views and was trending across Russia.

The rumour was that Boris Kirilenko was pulling strings to protect the reputation of his friend, General Sarov and was a surrogate father to Aleksandr. He wondered on the rumour that Sarov had committed suicide in front of his son. That alone would account for the recent breakdown and possibly the ballet dancer's preference for abusive relationships with older men. Kirilenko had been in Cuba when Sarov had returned to Murmansk of all places after nearly 12 years in exile. Nothing added up, as within days Boris had resigned after a supposed heart attack. The man was still a very fit seventy-five year old, visiting the ballet, writing editorials in the press and even commenting on social media.


	6. Chapter 6

Bernd Schnagel was a recently retired insurance broker, who had no real interest in the arts. He had never had anything in common with his younger brother. He had lived his whole life in his home town, was blessed with a healthy heart, a wonderful wife, three children, a grandchild and no interest in publicity or performing. Their parents had encouraged Manfred, who had attended ballet school in Stuttgart, danced there and Berlin. Trained as a choreographer in Leningrad and New York and lived his life as an exile in Russia, London and America. It was seven years since his premature death from heart failure. As executor of his brother's estate, he had sold the property in London and left that money to the ballet school his brother had attended as Manfred had always wanted. It had been six years since that boy, his brother's last fling, had last written. Now, he was being hounded by the press concerning Manfred's debts, when in truth his brother had no debts when he died. So, there was no reason to speak to those people.

The published article in the Spiegel was half praise for the ballet star Sasha Makarov's short but brilliant career and damning on the star's early assignation with Manfred Schangel, stating the choreographer had bullied, exploited and abused the young man between the ages of 18 and 21, when he should have established himself with a ballet company and entered competitions, but the young dancer had been enthralled by his older lover to the detriment of his own career. Manfred was described as a washed up failure. Nearly twenty years had passed between those early wonderful works lost to the lure of working in Hollywood. Then the journalist detailed hard facts of a young man working as a stripper, escort and in pornography to pay for his lover's mounting bills and existing debts. The young man had paid tax on £27,000 of earnings in that first year, including a large chunk offset as a business start-up for the dance troupe.

It was a shock to find out that the teenager had paid for nearly everything, including the plastic surgery Bernd had assumed Manfred had paid for. Then he thought of his brief introduction to Sasha's family, the Stravenkov's. The boy had been adopted by Manfred's mentor, the cold and formidable prima ballerina. Bernd had never put these facts together before. He had misjudged Sasha, thinking him nothing more than his brother's infatuation. Manfred had spoken of saving this boy from destitution, only it sounded like Sasha was the type of person who would have saved himself anyway. That young man, barely twenty one had been strangely emotionless during their brief exchange of words in Deptford. He had packed his belongings with the other dancers and left without any fuss. The paper spoke of an alcoholic who had resumed of drinking, through overwhelming grief to be brought back in line by Stravenkov. The dancer had formed his own company to perform his own works and had then been hired by the Bolshoi the following year with his triumphant restaging of Veshin's lost ballet.

The man hated admitting his faults but had decided not to burden his wife with his woes. That paper had been recycled before she had a chance to look at the spiteful article about dear Manfred. At the golf club in Dusseldorf, Bernd Schnagel approached Dieter Sprintz, whom he had played several rounds with and who had been mentioned in the article as handling the dancer's trust fund. "Herr Sprintz, can I talk to you about Sasha Makarov. My name is Bernd Schnagel. Sasha was my brother's partner."

"Yes, I could not go to the funeral, I sent flowers. Poor Alex, he loved your brother deeply. He has never really gotten over his loss."

"Aleksandr was very quiet at the funeral."

"Drugged, strong tranquillisers, he'd had a breakdown and Vladimir took him to see a grief therapist, who suggested medication. I admire the fact Maria's friends all rallied round for Alex. Despite the stupid rumours about paternity. Vladimir had filled that role out of love for Maria as Maria took care of Alex because of Manfred. I would have, if we'd stayed in contact. Alex and my son James were fast friends at school… Alex ran away several times after that and they lost touch. James finds it hard to relate to Alex's fluid personality, his identity disorder can make him hard to relate too at times."

"The Spiegel reported that he gave money to Manfred, quite a bit of money."

The billionaire shook his head, "Alex had inherited quite a good portfolio on his 21st birthday. Stocks, bonds and property. A house he sold for nearly nine million euros. Money just sat there as he won't touch it. He would have given every penny to Manfred. The main reason for their planned civil ceremony was for Manfred to take over as trust holder, just to fund their joint dream of ballets performed by their own company. Have you seen Alex dance, he is fabulous. I saw him perform in Swan Lake in Berlin, stunning. You should have seen him in those Variations, utter brilliance. He danced for the memory of Maria and Manfred as they shaped him into a wonderful piece of art."

"Isn't he still performing? He's still only 28."

"Retired due to ill health. He has just bought a wonderful house in London. An absolute gem of a Georgian town house, which needs gutting. Will be worth several million once its done up, bought for under three quarters of a million. The roofers are starting this week. Wait, I have photos on my phone."

….

Underneath the elevated Waterloo to Clapham Railway Line were a series of premises used as garages, lock ups and small businesses. The lockup in the arches off Centaur Street was hidden from view by an ugly concrete abutment, here Alex had inherited a dead drop from Yassen, who had in turn inherited it from John Rider. Ian had never known about this gold mine containing two motorbikes, a mini cooper , a stash of gold coins, uncut diamonds, dollars and swiss francs, guns, bullets and long out of date passports. There was also camping and survival equipment, clothes and chemicals. In the boot of the mini were keepsakes from his father, photos, medals and letters. There were also leases for three properties, other safe houses; in Ireland, France and Germany. Alex stood in the light of the single overhead bulb with Sergeant Cooper.

"So, my legacy care of my dear old dad; who was ex-SAS. I have no need for keepsakes and this place is kind of fitting for his stuff. Its just so funny that the press decided that the insane Russian General is my daddy. As you can see John Rider really was not much better. This place shows he was an assassin, no pretending about it. I've got an arsenal stashed here, enough to start a small war."

The forty-nine year old ex soldier pondered the fact he was stood here in a secret hideaway, hidden for nearly thirty years. "Why are you showing me this, Alex?"

Alex looked at the guy he had grown to like a great deal in the past two weeks "Move in with me, Sergeant."

Three dates so far, the first arranged by his niece. In truth they had moved in together after the second date. The odd job man and part time fitness instructor was still firmly in his don't ask, don't fell mindset, but coming out was on his to do list. Moving in with a guy was making that statement loud and clear. "We need a place to move in together, because you want to live in London not Hereford."

"I have recently acquired a house near Spitalfields, Paul bought it for me at auction last week. Georgian, three storey with cellar and attic. Ground floor and cellar are retail. Top two floors are split into three flats, two one bed on the first floor and one two bed with the attic. Needs a complete refurbishment and rennovation. I was thinking of a coffee shop downstairs. Bought the freehold for for £700K, done up one flat is worth that alone. Needs about another quarter of a million to do it up. Its not been touched since the sixties. You wanted a challenge. This is it. I have the cash, I've arranged for the work to start tomorrow and we can have it ready for living in by the New Year." Alex did not add that the bit of real estate should have sold for twice that amount, but Paul had leaned on the auctioneer, who had considerable casino debts and was in the gangster's pocket. The money from the sale of his Sydney apartment had been well spent.

Alex continued, wanting to persuade his lover to make the big leap; "I want you to be able to trust me, to know all about me. Dancer and operative, I've retired from both. Dancing is now a hobby as you know and I know from my shrink I cannot compartmentalise and remain sane. So, you hate life in Hereford as a retired gentleman of limited means. Rent out your place and live with me. Added enticement of sex, sex and more sex. I'm also a fair cook and I'll do all the housework. I want my bed back, the one I bought for Cheyne Walk, its big with a perfect mattress and just the right height and design for nocturnal activities of a more risqué nature. I know you like being my dom."

Bernard Copper smiled "You won't call me by my given name. I'm even Sergeant in bed."

"Bernie is an awful name, worse than Bernard. Calling you Cooper is just weird. Umm I like calling you Sergeant, maybe I should start calling you daddy, or sir or master."

"My nickname at school was Tommy."

"Right, Tomasz. I can go with that. Are you sure you weren't christened Sergeant?"

"No I was christened Bernard Niall Cooper."

"Niall… cool. Why does anyone call you Bernie when you have a cool middle name. I hate Alexander, but John is worse. So, Niall, fancy a nice Italian dinner then slumming it in Mayfair at Dieter's place. We can fuck on every surface. That will piss James off."

"How long are you planning on staying at Dieter Sprintz's apartment?"

"Err, indefinitely. His diary is full and he's spending Christmas and New Year in Switzerland as he's thinking of moving there. James will be here at some point to catch up with mummy, but I'm going home and you are due to spend those two weeks with Cindy, Emil and the bump in Berlin."

Bernard had now been renamed Niall by his boyfriend; who was being scarily open about his past. From a man so comfortable in his own closet a month ago, everything had changed as a result of his niece and her idea of a blind date. A game of true or dare had resulted in the retired soldier confessing he had loved Alex since seeing him dance for the first time. He had not been the first nor the only gay man serving in the SAS, but he had kept a lid on his sexuality, preferring not to date. Even his brother through he had grown out of the fad when he joined the army. He was going to have a shock at Christmas, since Cindy was like the cat that got the cream over her skills at matchmaking.

"Are you going to sell any of this stuff?"

"No, rainy day fund. It could still all go pear shaped. Those diamonds might pay for our own retirement home in the sun. I fancy the Black Sea, but I guess you'd prefer somewhere closer."

"As long as its not Skegness, I'm cool. So, back north of the River to a candle lit dinner in Mayfair. "

"No, we're going to a small cafe on Old Compton Street. Best pasta in the west end and family run, it was Cindy's favourite before club supper place. We always ate full carbs before working at Paul's place."

…

Alex had made a big dent in his plate of linguine and his boyfriend was nearly finished his rare steak, when they were disturbed by Pierre Grenville, one of the Corps de Ballet at Covent Garden.

"Sasha? Hi, its Pierre. Are you in town to perform?" The dancer asked tentatively, wondering if the ENO had hired him.

"Err, no. Retired actually. I'm moving back, well maybe. Niall and I were discussing our options for shared life goals. So, How are you Pepe?"

"Birthday dinner with my folks. I could eat pizza for every meal but stick to special occasions only. So, not dancing. I lost the office sweepstake then. I got you 'dancing again, not classical or exotic'. Frances got 'retired and shacked up with new boyfriend', so I guess she won."

"Don't call it in. I have plans, watch my youtube page. You might just win the jackpot."


	7. Chapter 7

Three videos posted, all segments from his ballet. This morning he was laid in bed reading the email from Cassian stating his mother was totally in love with his composition and Alex's choreography, of course, and was now wanting to fund a documentary on this modern and viral take on ballet as performance art. Alex guessed everyone in the media knew it was Dave Meadows behind the camera, a man who had been filming his rehearsals as well. The artist had his studio in Greenwich and had been around to dinner nearly every week since Alex and Niall had moved to their new abode in late January. Dave and Niall were fast friends and traded stories. Like Alex, his friend could not get enough of operations and training SNAFU's about the SAS.

The last piece had been the most daring, filmed in front of the British Museum in one take with four camera men, a busking string quartet as accompaniment to Cassian on keyboard and a full crowd of early morning onlookers last Sunday. Genevieve had been his partner, she ran a ballet studio in Bethnal Green where Alex now did class and hired rehearsal space. A woman in her mid forties with two teenager children and long chic, prematurely grey hair always simply braided. She was happy teaching dance and had briefly performed in Paris under the great Rudolf Nureyev. A dancer who had taught him several important lessons on mentoring and challenged him as a choreographer by questioning his every move, motivation and the emotional resonance for real truth. She had helped him refashion this variation into a very personal piece about his psyche and its effect on his past relationships.

He got up as the clock radio broadcast the seven o'clock news and went downstairs for coffee and breakfast with Niall in their coffee shop. Niall was up at five for a run and at work at six, for deliveries of sandwiches and cakes to prepare for the working day, open seven till six in the evening. Two blocks over from Liverpool Street and one block from Smithfield, the excellent coffee served had already gained a reputation with caffeine aficionados in the City. Niall who had bought the coffee machines in Italy, he had trained as a barista at the age of eighteen when he had worked all summer in a coffee shop in Venice, perfecting his italian.

Alex worked the 11:30 to six shift, to have time to take class and rehearse, shop and potter. The walls of the coffee shop decorated with photos of dancers, programme covers and sheet music, all copies from Maria's collection. The blackboard listing choice of beans rather than insipid sugary concoctions on offer in the big chains. Niall stared blankly with his full Sergeant face when some poor fool asked for anything with caramel or whipped cream. Their joint love of coffee was for the real deal, be it filtered, percolated or in a cafetiere. It was all lead by fantastic beans, sourced independently from fair trade cooperatives, perfectly roasted and freshly ground.

"Morning beautiful, you're in the paper again. Some one papped you when you were helping out at Loulou's, you look hot clearing tables."

"That was in the Russian gossip mags last week. Boris phoned asking if I needed money. I'm not sure he believe me when I said I was just helping out a friend. A couple of Muscovite tourists recognised me, only because I gave then directions and was given away by my bad Siberian accent, cause lets face it I'm nobody here in London. Not like Russia, where dancers at the Bolshoi are more famous than soap stars there." Alex then tucked into his almond croissant and triple espresso as the first customers of the day strolled in. He glanced at the Mail, where he graced page 7, " Bolshoi star on the breadline waiting tables in the City". Alex had to agreed he did look hot in the picture, as he was captured learning over the table, before he turned the paper over to review the sport pages.

…

The Bolshoi were in London this summer and the full cast had been agreed for the summer dates. Director Titov was visiting for the press release and all the publicity for the tickets due on sale next week.

"Have you heard from Sasha, Graeme? I have spoken to Alia and Boris and they both tell me he is fine and happy back here in London. Ludmilla has no direct contact and Luci says he's retired and yet those videos are ten times more popular than both our websites put together."

"I went to dinner two weeks ago. He's living with Cindy Cooper's uncle in the City. Nice apartment. Wasn't Genevieve Durrant fabulous in his last piece." Both men knew her from when she danced with the Paris Ballet in the late eighties and the fact she had left due to stress.

"He's not looking for a position anywhere? I can't believe he's just retired. Such a talent.. such promise… even as a choreographer; but he still dances better than my current principals. Would he accept a guest spot?"

"It would not hurt to ask, but he's put his personal happiness and stability first. He was always strange. He is not the Sasha who worked here three years ago, but not ill; but who am I to pass judgements concerning medical diagnoses. He is more, not effeminate exactly, just not as quintessentially male. No macho bravado anymore. No wonder the press thought he was in transition. He states he won't conform to gender stereotypes anymore and if people can't accept him as he is then they can go fuck themselves." The Director of the Royal Ballet had a smile on his face remembering that conversation.

"Vladimir stated he had episodes of amnesia. Is this an aspect of his personality disorder? Will he remember me?" Grennady was worried about that aspect of Sasha's complex mental state.

With reassurance, Graeme tried to explain, "He's fine, really, but it is akin to meeting a different person. Sasha admits that all before was lies, lies and more lies. Masks erected over years, protection for a very damaged child. That he had always been in hiding. Only his art is truth." Graeme pondered the fact Sasha had never even asked to train at Covent Garden, never mind work again. "His breakdown was catastrophic and he used dancing, the harsh regime of training and strict diet as part of his control issues over the great amount of pain, grief and betrayal he endured at such a young age. You should talk to Derek, he discovered Alex back in 1998. He describes such a lovely, open and enthusiastic child with such great talent. The talent is still there but Sasha is so beautiful in spirit, but oh so very fragile; like Murano glass vessel riven with fine cracks. I think very occasional guest appearances are all we can ask of him."

The car dropped them off by a busy street in the City of London. Grennady Titov wondered if he was about to see a principal dancer of world renown reduced to waiting tables like the gutter press reported. He had heard rumours that the Russian TV crew had tried to find the errant dancer at that french restaurant only to be threatened with 'the Riot Act' by the owner. Sasha was as elusive as a zephyr. His companion walked with assurance and led them through the bustle of shoppers and tourists and turned down a narrow alley. In front of them was a tiny coffee shop, painted dark blue with small window panes looking very antique and very english. The sign had a cup of coffee painted on it and the name Maria in cyrillic. A queue of patrons being served by a young woman with dreadlocks held back by a colourful headscarf and her pretty face marred by several facial piercings in her lip, eyebrow and nose. The fifty five year old ex-dancer then noted the walls decorated in framed photos, programs and music, from Kirov and Bolshoi productions in the fifties, sixties and seventies. Above the till were a pair of small ballet shoes, a child's in black, possibly Sasha's, but maybe little Nina's.

"Evening, guys. Sasha's upstairs with Niall. Just go on up. They're expecting you."

The hall was lit by a tall thin window. The staircase rails were polished mahogany and the stairs covered in high quality carpet, which deadened their footfalls. Two storeys up the door was ajar. The room smelt of coffee and freshly baked ginger biscuits.

"I texted ahead. Always polite to be expected. I will give you Sasha's address and phone numbers as he can be a bit erratic answering his emails. If you write him a letter he always responds. His handwriting is awful. Block capitals mostly and forget any meaningful punctuation. Alia told me that is how he writes in Russian as well, but with a million spelling mistakes and as many corrections."

Sasha smiled as he heard the soft knock, "Come on in make yourselves at home."

The living area had two low long divans, part day bed and part sofa, covered in bright coloured cushions and the polished wood floor covered with a Persian carpet decorated with intricate geometric designs. The walls were panelled in wood covered in photographs of New York, Sydney, Moscow and Novosibirsk. The focus point was a very modern wood burning stove.

"Good to see you Esteemed Director Titov, I'll give you the tour of my home. The kitchen, cabinets all salvaged wood built by a carpenter I met at AA. Tiles are reproduction Delft, not the genuine article. Worktops are marble, which we found that in the cellar from when this place was a butchers, ripped out and just dumped. All Miele appliances, except Niall's coffee machine which is a genuine 1950's death trap and then upstairs are the two bedrooms and small shower room. Niall is upstairs in his office and will be down presently. He's on the phone to Ethiopia about our next shipment of coffee."

"Its bigger than it looks on the outside. I take you eat ottoman style from your divans?" It was an unusual set up, more turkish than english.

"Yeah. Had those built to fit, can get eight around comfortably. I love entertaining, as you know. So lets sit. We have coffee, tea, wine, champagne and mineral water."

At that point Director Titov got to meet Sasha's new partner. A tall, well built man with grey hair and piercing blue eyes entered the room. He exuded an aura of power and control, a man not to be crossed.

"Director, this is Niall Cooper. My partner." Alex said simply.

"It good to met you. I have met your niece, Cindy. I remember you encouraged her to dance?"

"Yes, I paid for expenses at school and her fees after her parents divorced. Her mum wanted her to get a proper job back in Barnsley, luckily Cin stood up to my sister and she's still dancing, cabaret and circus mostly, but it suits her."

"So, you met Sasha through her?"

"No, I knew Sasha years before that." The man then shut up and wondered how to change the subject as Alex had provided all with drinks and snacks.

Alex smiled "We met when I was fourteen, just after my uncle Ian died. Niall was an instructor at Brecon, when I trained there."

"Dance training?" asked Graeme, interested in how they met.

"No, Special Forces training Camp in the Brecon Beacons. My uncle wanted me to follow in his footsteps." Alex answered without a second thought.

"Shut up Alex, thats classified." Sergeant Cooper hissed in full operational mode.

"Bollocks to that, darling. Ian was a spy.. not a banker. I had been trained from childhood to be a spy, the main reason he kiboshed my going to ballet school. It wasn't part of his grand plan. He was a real bastard about it as well. When Jack went on holiday that August, we went to an isolated cabin in the Cairngorms for our summer holiday, where he ran me ragged, kept me awake, making me do impossible chores, beat, starved and threatened me with worse if I even thought about being either gay or a dancer. And you thought Ian was an OK guy. He was the first person to torture me, to break me. You guys at Brecon were pussycats compared to my dear departed uncle. RTI for 24 hours was nothing compared to what I survived at eleven. Fuck, I need a drink!"

Alex exhaled and calmed himself after his venting. "Supper out tonight. I want lots of evil carbs and tiramisu. Lets go back west to my favourite Italian. Sorry Niall but I'm sick of lying and covering up for the abuse I suffered as a kid. I... They can't threaten me anymore, because they already stripped me of everything. Most of the time I think I'm just a shell, a zombie rather than a real person. Its only music and dance that means anything. No more classified, lovely. If you want me to shut up, just kiss me, that shuts ne up and resets bad thought processes as well. Sex as a therapeutic tool. Annie will like that."


	8. Chapter 8

They had returned home after a rather tense meal. Niall a mix of upset over their tiff and worried about his lover's erratic outburst.

Alex was the first to clear the air. "I'm sorry… I need to be honest. I can't allow the lies to creep back. I do that then I start erecting masks again and it becomes a vicious circle and before you know it I'm back in the game of shadows and lies. No, you need to be a good dom about this. You should have kissed me or used our safe word." The dancer was tense, his muscles rigid. "I need correction… I've been pushing your buttons… I love you but I'm edging into mania again."

The man mused on all that had been said. Dom was the wrong word. He might top, might instruct and apply correction, but it was his forthright and wonderful lover who called the shots, whether for vanilla sex or role play. They only ever crossed from lovers to playtime at his sub's insistence. The two were separated as the attic was only used for BDSM. "Get upstairs, the attic, not our bedroom. Be kneeling, naked for when I get up there. No preparation, no getting anything ready. Do not touch yourself. I'm calling all the shots tonight. The only word you can speak is your safe word if you need time out." He had never spoken of this to his niece and he often wondered if she knew he was into the scene before she played matchmaker. Probably from his nonplussed reaction to her confession at working in that sort of club at 18 with Sasha. He had always carefully chosen his previous partners; away from any established clubs or meeting places, too afraid of being outed when still in the Army. Sasha was perfection in his eyes, difficult, needed careful handling, but nothing worth having was easy. He then went to the bedroom to change clothes. Tonight was not about rest or sex or violence. It was about trust, love and caring. The attic, part office, but the desk used for play as well. Only the most observant would guess from its height, the fact it was fixed to the floor and decorated with metal rings in odd places. The armoire was locked and contained not important documents but items for play.

Tonight, he'd keep it simple to moderate correction, possibly bondage for control and then lots of aftercare once Sasha got balance in his zone.

….

No promises, no plans, no marriage, he'd wanted all that in the past, twice before. No, with his sergeant, it just was them together, one day at a time. Sasha held onto his lover's wrist when he moved to get up at five, no need for an alarm as years of waking early had conditioned him to rise early and get on with things.

Still sleepy after only a couple of hours sleep, Sasha wanted comfort. "Come back to bed after your ablutions. I need you… I want your morning wood buried to the hilt in my arse. I feel like riding you like a horse for hours. Karen can cover the early shift today. I'll text her and then we can get on with more important things. She's the manager downstairs now anyway, she needs to cover deliveries."

"No, I'll text her. I'll let her know whats expected, you don't deal with the morning rush. There's two special orders this morning, I just need to let her know the specifics." said the tall grey haired barista.

Karen lived two streets away, the former city broker had decided to turn on, tune in and drop out; just from the city not as an entrepreneur. She had bought the lease on the coffee shop and was learning all about sourcing, supply and getting the best for your customers as a trainee barista, helped by Niall and Sasha. The cash-rich young capitalist had smelled the possibility of long term moola, maybe even expansion into a chain, one offering a real coffee experience. Sasha was on the lookout for his next property to do up and sell on. Niall waited until after his much needed visit to the john. "Hi, Karen. The shops all yours this morning, if you have any problems we're only a phone call away. The delivery list is on the notice board. Two pre-orders are all listed. Sasha needs a bit of TLC today… yeah, it was a bit of a heavy visit….. No, I think everyone gets he needs time to get everything together still. I may suggest we both go back to New York for a bit.…See you about 10ish, Remember Don't panic. "

As the lovely late spring morning sun moved to its zenith, Alex lay in bed, his fingers playing with the plug in his anus, enjoying the small jolts of pleasure as it brushed his prostate. Therapy by sensory overload was perfection. Nothing but the best feeling in the world, pleasure and lingering aches from true bliss. On the bedside table, his phone alert buzzed not one but three times, which meant it was Pytor signalling him that he really wanted to talk. He clicked onto FaceTime to see the Vladimir's eldest son with really bad bedhead and only lit by his bedside lamp.

"Whatsup?" Alex said smiling at the fact it was obvious he was naked in bed.

"Shit, are you still in bed? You never sleep in? Sasha, I need advice. I still go to dancing lessons and class every week… I put in for the Julliard Summer School and well I got turned down. I got a place at their summer camp and Dad says he can get me a sponsor no problem, but it's like over seven grand in fees and with the flight, too much. I wanted to be good enough that they'd take me no questions and fees paid. Was it like this for you? I'm caught between thinking are they were just pandering to the name.. the legacy and not seeing me or am I just moderately OK and they are damning me with faint praise?"

"So, you want to dance professionally" Sasha queried, as the application would have gone in last December.

"You have shown me that dance can be more than just stagecraft, it is art in itself. The purity of your own form as the medium. Art school, maybe film school is a possibility but your stuff with Dave Meadows that is just on the edge."

"Want me to talk to Dave about an apprenticeship this summer? Or do you want to train and perform with me and Genevieve. I have to warn you she is one hell of a partner and teacher. I will pay for class with her, no problem. I'm also happy to pay for your airfare either here or to Geneva. Give me a couple of weeks and I can pay for camp. You need to do this properly to get in at the right level. I have to say the only thing that's held me back was not having exams and missing the move from corps to soloist in a company. You say you don't want to do that route, but it's a rite of passage. You have options and you can always try for the Summer School at Julliard again next summer or try for the Royal Ballet School summer school. If you really want to freak your dad out send your application for the senior placement in Perm, Moscow or St. Petersburg. I can talk to Grennady for you or Graeme. Lots of options"

The teenager hugged his knees on his bed three thousand miles away and pondered his rejection and other doors still open. "I think going guerrilla with you and Dave is my best option, but mom and dad will veto it. I'm still a fifteen year old kid. You, you had lived a lot more at 15."

"Do not use anything I did before 16 as an example of how to live your life. Are you drinking? Taking drugs? By that I mean charlie or horse, cause a few joints, speed or ecstasy is not major in my book. Have you fucked half of Bogata? I mean I know I am a good example of being lucky to the extreme. I survived … but am I sane, settled or thriving. I'm still running, Petrushka. Constantly moving, I'm lucky to have a guy that wants to keep moving with me." Alex exhaled "Talk to Luci… and Vladimir. Your dad is the best sounding board in the world. He was happy for me to move in with Manfred after I talked it through with him. You have three years until big decisions over college, work and moving out are reality. I'll butter Dave up. I'm at his studio this afternoon. Can you send through any art work you've done or any ideas for concepts? You post videos, send him the links. He might point you to someone working in New York. No decisions until I do a background check though. Plenty of creeps out there. Best to stay safe. I'll speak to you later."

"Thanks Sasha, I've been really down about it. You always have great ideas. Later, bro." Pyotr then lay down to sleep.

…..

Ten days later, Pyotr was shaken awake at 4:30 by the gruff tones of Bernard Niall Cooper. "Rise and Shine, Petrushka. Get up, get breakfast as our lift is here in 20 minutes. Your kit better be packed. Do not forget your passport."

The fifteen year old grunted and wished for another seven or eight hours in bed.

"You can sleep all the way to Paris after we get on the train at St. Pancras." As the retired sergeant pulled off the duvet and left to go downstairs to triple check stock and deliveries before their trip.

The young dancer pulled on jeans, t-shirt, socks and sneakers and joined his mentor/teacher and unofficial brother in the kitchen.

"Egg and bacon butty with ketchup is the breakfast of the day. Orange juice is poured for you. Niall with be here in five minutes to take the bags down and Genevieve has texted that her lot will meet us on the train."

"Why the train? Surely flying's faster." All said by Pyotr with a mouthful of sandwich.

"Factor in travel & security, the Eurostar is the fastest way to the centre of Paris. We will be there for our 11am class. 2pm for our rehearsal and 6pm for our shoot at the Lourve. Niall is our security and gofer. Dave is already there and has organised the permits and the TV crew. You have Louis, Dan and Suki to keep you entertained. So, its four teenagers for the weekend not just you stuck with the boring oldsters."

…

On the answerphone in New York, the irate and upset voice of the cuckoo spoke with clearly annunciated diction, "Vladimir… Luci… pick up … its an emergency…. I will keep ringing until you answer….."

Vladimir snatched the phone on the bedside table and almost screamed "How is Pytor? What has happened?"

"Your son is fine. Boris is dying… he's asking for me, so I need to go to Moscow. I have an embassy official here. Do … Can I take Pytor with me? I will be there until the funeral and yes its a certainty, he has gone into renal failure and he is old. I can put Petrushka on a plane home today on a direct flight, Paul has a jet available for me to go east. For some reason the Russian's won't give Niall a visa. I think he did something spooky back in the day and is on a blacklist."

"You are rambling, Cuckoo. I take it you will be staying with your friend Dimitry?"

"No, Alia has already texted me that we can crash at her place. I can't stay with Dima. He's not cool with me being me. He's also being very judgemental thinking Niall is just another abusing bastard. I come out as gay and half my friends think I'm just crazy." Alex knew he was making his mouth go because he was nervous. "I know you don't want Petrushka to go to Russia. There's seats on the Air France flight Paris Charles de Gaulle to JFK at 7. Its your call, Niall can take him to the airport and then the airline will chaperone him."

"Put Pyotr on the phone."

"Hi, Tough guy, I need you to look after Sasha for me and your mom. You know he talks big but he needs family and at the moment that is you. Watch him for all the warning signs that were discussed in our family sessions. You can call me or mom at any time. I will text you Director Titov's number in case of any emergencies. You have Paul Roscoe's email, trust him. Do not trust Dimitry Ivanov or any of Boris Kiriyenko's friends; although that old bastard's daughters are OK. They are both outspoken political activists for freedom of speech and democracy. Look after yourself, enjoy Moscow. Remember, you are too young to drink vodka no matter what anyone says."

The fifteen year old looked pensive as he switched off the phone, knowing his father was asking and trusting his son to walk in his shoes. "So, where are we meeting Paul?"

…..

Pyotr was sat on the business jet listening in to Sasha talk to his old friend Paul Roscoe on the way to Moscow. His carefully structured plan for four weeks of work experience had gone out of the window during the second day they were in Paris with the artist Dave Meadows. The evening performance had gone without a hitch and the artist had asked the fifteen year old to post his edit by 9 tonight. He was meant to be working, but he kept hearing snippets of things the cuckoo kept secret. The teenager knew he had gone to boarding school in France, but they were talking about clones, assassinations and kidnappings.

"Remind me never to get on your bad side, Paul. You are one paranoid mother fucker. All completely justifiable, like myself. Grief fucked you, me and Dima completely. Julius … I can still look in the mirror and see him grinning back at me. You and Dieter have the tightest security on the planet and well, Dima works for Russian Federal Security on the fast track to being President one day. I'm still in no-man's land, so to speak. Niall's back up plan is hilarious. I'm not telling you but he seems to be the most pleasant, capable person to all, but is a sneakily and outrageously dangerous man who was completely delighted with my rainy day supplies and very liquid and non-traceable funds. I have safehouses and supplies stashed if I need to make a run for it. He plans to join me. I gave you the low down on moving and living outside the system. Fuck it, Paul, you own a least two islands and can afford your own army, navy, airforce and spies. Sorry, you already have your spy network. We're going to have to talk about the weather as Pyotr has switched off his iPod and is listening in."

Paul shrugged "He will know all this already if he paid any attention to you. You disappeared last year and only that bastard Byrne knew where you might be. You were not even trying to disappear. You went to Lola to become human again. She told you to stick with Maria and Vladimir in 2003. She also told you to trust your heart. So, you and your sergeant… thank god, you'll stop trying to get into my pants."

"Threesome? Niall can spank you while you fuck me. Interested?"

"Not a suitable topic with a child present."

Alex barked out a laugh "Fifteen, just think what we were doing at that age. You were spying on your mother and had got a full dossier together for your planned liberation. All while at boarding school with James, Nicolas and Cassian in Switzerland. I mean using that prenuptual agreement to cut her out of all influence from both you and Roscoe Industries was masterful. The lawyer was only there for show."

Paul lifted his glass of water to toast his companion "You stopped saving the world at fifteen, Alex. You disappeared without a backward glance. That was the reason I divorced my bitch of a mother. You spoke to James after Jack died. I begged that woman to get you into therapy, for us all to go to school together in Geneva. You could have healed there. She called you a delusional liar when I spoke of how you escaping down that mountain, fought with the SAS to free me and took out that helicopter with a jet ski. I think she still preferred Napoleon to me. Fucking bitch. It will be a cold day in hell before I have anything to do with her again. She accused me of being besotted with you. It reminds me of the hard truth of my life. I loved my father, despite our differences. She killed him as much as Grief did."

The billionaire looked at his watch, "landing in 30 minutes. There will be a helicopter waiting for you. I'll be only five hours late to Mumbai. Do not get angry at Boris. He has to accept you as you are. He knows you're gay. Don't bullshit about being bi, you only sleep with women who don't procreate and only then to play the game of being the Alex people want you to be."


	9. Chapter 9

Pytor Vladimirovich, as all the adults were calling him, had fallen through the looking glass into Sasha's crazy world. He had found out his family name had been anglicised for the stage by his father, as Tchanchikov was totally a bit of a mouthful. That was one piece of information of note that at seventeen, daddy had his eyes sat on the New World and ballet had been his ticket out with some bullshit of a Scottish ancestor. Pyotr would be the first to admit it had been a steep learning curve and he had taken a couple of days to get up speed over the cultural change. The difference in outlooks had caused a bit of a bumpy ride to begin with, but he had adopted Sasha's game plan. This is me, deal with it,

So much for staying with Alia, they were guests in the Dacha of Katya Borisovna, who was treating Sasha and Petrushka as favoured siblings, not strangers. There was no wailing, all agreed that Boris Anatolyovich had lived a full and happy life and a good passing. The full house of friends and family were talking of Papa, Grandfather, Uncle and faultlessly generous Borya and their recollections were peppered with laughter and tear filled eyes of the pain of remembering many good and bad times. Sasha was silent. Pyotr was sat holding his brother's hand, both of them with an untouched glass of vodka in front of them. A glass that would be drunk before they left for the funeral, for Boris.

The fifteen year old pulled at his black tie, for Auntie Katya to notice and ruffle the boy's blond hair and reassure him that later this afternoon he could relax and play football with his 'cousins'. Uncle Timur arrived to say the cars were ready. A state funeral, this high school kid from Manhattan was going to a State Funeral of His Excellency, President of the Russian Federation, Boris Kiriyenko. A man he had only met on his deathbed, three days ago. A man who treated Sasha as his prodigal son. The olds man's last words had been 'I was a selfish fool. Forgive me, Sasha. I should have adopted you. If only we had both seen through our masks then. How different would our lives have been.'

…..

The Roscoe Industries Ansat helicopter flew straight from Vnikovo Airport to the helipad on the roof of Moscow Central Clinical Hospital. During the short flight, the teenager could see Sasha grow tense, emotionless and put his guarded mask in place. Pyotr muttered "Stop hiding, Sasha. You remember, no masks. I don't care who these people are. The line has been drawn. Acceptance and nonconformity is the new you. Do you want me to call Annie for you?"

The stiffness did not fully leave the dancer and tension was still present, but he did smile weakly and squeeze his brother's hand for reassurance. "What is Boris going to think of me? I'm not the man he knew, I never was. I am the antithesis of all he thinks is good and right. Should I not give a dying man what he wants and expects."

The fifteen year old decided to play tough love, thinking that the truth above all was needed to shatter the comfort of pandering to expectations. "No, put yourself first. If you don't I will squeal to Lola. Don't be the broken child soldier anymore, Sasha. You are so much more than your uncle's puppet. If your friend is anything like the person you described; he loves you because of mistakes and understands all you endured deeply affected you. What happened in the past is what makes you you. No editing. I promised Dad to look out for you. I'm here for you. No bullshit, big brother. We, the Makarov-Stravenkov's stick together. As Lola said biology be damned. I really really really wish she was here."

"So do I." Alex said smiling. Lola had proved to be a firm favourite for shopping, dressing up and girls nights with both Luci and Nina. Biology be damned was that lady's motto.

…..

Kolya was there by the elevator waiting for the arrival of honoured visitors and hugged and kissed Alex and his brother in greeting. "Sasha, Pyotr Vladimirovich, welcome to Moscow. I cannot thank you both enough for dropping everything to come. He's holding on to see you, Sasha. The rumour on the TV news is that you were in Paris to become guest artiste there to stage your new ballet, with the brilliant new junior soloist from New York." Konya winked playfully at the teenage dancer. "I have watched all your videos with Boris. He listens to your friend's music everyday. Loves it. He wishes you were dancing here in Moscow and will be watching in spirit, with his Oksana when you do."

The big gruff ex-paratrooper looked haggard.

Sasha asked knowing the man will have not left his good friend's side in days. "Have you rested at all since the old man collapsed?"

"No, it is my duty to stay, he is my responsibility. Best position I have ever been entrusted with. Going back to the rank and file will be impossibly hard. Boris has been a joy to protect and to befriend. Forgive him if he mentions the General. He has been drifting into his memories with the pain medication. Remember he loves you and regrets much. Indulge any faux pas. Just a warning the whole family is here. I wish to strangle his bitch of a sister, luckily the girls can't stand their aunt and cut her out of their conversation and haggling. Its like Macbeth… three witches. Leave your bags at the security check point. President Tchaikov has visited everyday, after everything Boris has always been a popular with both the hard liners and the progressives."

Both Americans were given a full pat down by the security agents and then proceeded to the crowded corridor where Katya and Xenia Borisovna, noted the arrival of the American dancer with smiles and heartfelt greetings to the black sheep, before reassuring Sasha "Your brother will be fine with us. Timur will get him a drink and a snack. There is a TV in the nurses lounge. He can watch sport or pop videos. Go straight in. He has been asking for his favourite godson."

Alex was shocked to see the frail ghost of a man in the hospital bed. He was thin, his skin like paper and his breaths rattling as he fought for each lungful of air despite the oxygen tent.

"Sasha…. you look well…. come sit so I can have a proper look at you."

Milky grey eyes drank in the sight of this dearly missed exile. The thin hand reached over the edge of the bed and Alex clasped the bony hand and gently kissed the back of it. "I have missed you so much, Borya. I hated leaving you. I have missed the good times we had here. Playing backgammon with you and your friends at the banya."

The old man squeezed softly and the smiled "You are dancing with Vladimir's son. Your friend's have posted the video of Paris this afternoon. Kolya has an alert on his phone. It was inspiring to use young dancers. Your brother he is following your footsteps as a dancing performance artist rather than just a ballet star. You know we have corresponded, such a cheeky and forthright young man. Very mature."

"I told Petrushka to finish school here in Moscow, to study with Alia. Her contemporary dance class has a three year waiting list, but I think my recommendation might sway her to accept him."

"The security team said he was here with you. I never expected his parents to allow such a thing."

"I hope Petrushka grows to love the land of his father. I know I have. Vladimir paints a grim picture of his life here, but his family life was awful and he ran to find happiness. I think that is why he accepted me. He was the only one of Maria's circle that saw the damaged child under my cocky bravado. He knew I ran out of fear of a cage. I was running from myself, I carried the horrors of my past with me, never confronting the hurt and pain. I have now. I am healing."

Alex hated goodbyes, but he needed to give this man the olive branch he had long yearned for. "I have confronted all the skeletons in my closet. It has taken me years to understand Alexei. You have to understand to forgive. He … he was the first father to me…. Vladimir is … you are… After being a parentless, an afterthought, I am blessed to have such wonderful families now. Alexei… can you truthfully believe he would have accepted me… the homosexual… the broken child soldier … the performance artist. I am not Vladimir on any level. It is only a passing resemblance. I was never close to his ideal of a good son. In Murmansk, I expected him to kill me and I goaded him to do so. My death over millions. He was so blinkered by his vision of greatness. I rejected him… I will never be, could never take Vladimir's place. His delusion was to see his son in me. He was not well. Conrad preyed on that.. used him. Your friend was caught in the web of conspiracies and delusions. I have also faced that abyss. You have always said that you wish I had know your friend, not the demon who possessed him at the end." Alex did not voice his suspicion that the CIA had used him for that operation because of his close resemblance to the General's beloved dead son.

"You are like my own son, Sasha. I have told my girls that. You being here has made this old man happy and I can rest in peace. I have missed my Oksana so, and my friend, the real friend, as you say the father to Vladimir and the man that should have seen you, the real you as his son as I have.."

…..

Two women with grown up children of their own, joined Sasha as the old man slept and then breathed his last. All present in that room then wept openly and comforted each other.

Katya collected herself as her younger sister comforted her own daughters. "Petrushka…he calls you his brother from another mother. We are all siblings in that sense, we had a wonderful father, one you only knew as a man. Yes, you should have been our brother since Uncle Alyosha passed. We all agree on that. You will come and stay for the viewing. Business first for you. Your friend Dimitry is here. Running errands for that pig Tchaikov, who never once visited Boris until he was dying. He is a snake, I fear Boris asked him to watch over you. Trust me, Aleksandrov is the only protector you need."

…..

It was Kolya who took control over the interloper. "Sasha will be staying with Katya until the funeral. He needs to be at her house by nightfall for the laying out of Boris' corpse. Have a care to respect Boris' daughters and their demands at this difficult time. They want their brother there. You need to respect Sasha's chaperone as well. Little Petrushka has been told not to trust you. Why does your and Sasha's rich and influential friend Paul Roscoe doubt you will put your rescuer's needs first? Think on that Dimitry Ivanovich."

The Federal Security Officer in full dress uniform saluted the highly decorated and respected presidential bodyguard "You have nothing to fear from me. Alex's presence has been requested by His Excellency President Tshaikov, he only wishes to meet the Hero of Murmansk, the boy who ensured the safety and stability of our fatherland. It is time for truth to be aired since the traitor's only friend is now dead."

…..

How deep did the rabbit hole go? All the way to the Presidential State Apartment at the Kremlin. Pyotr gripped Sasha's hand as they travelled in the flag draped car with police escort. Dimitri was sat in the front with the driver, giving the grieving brothers privacy. Alex blew his nose on his last hanky and then rubbed eyes with his left hand. He then pulled out his phone and Pyotr read the emails as they were typed. Messages to Paul, Dieter Sprintz, the Sergeant and to last to Edward Pleasure. "Heads up Russians about to declassify Skeleton Key. Possibly also Point Blanc. Operation cat out of the bag. May need to run to ground! Speak fully after the funeral."

The phone was then passed to Pyotr, "It might be better if you talk to mom and dad. Wake's in Russia are long winded and close family affairs, both Katya and Xenia have taken a shine to you and me both."


	10. Chapter 10

The Kremlin was a vast complex of Buildings behind the encircling boundary wall. The car drew north, well past the building where Boris had resided or the State Rooms where Sasha had attended the infamous party in 2011. Never in a million years had the ex-spy and former SCORPIA assassin expected to be given a private audience with any head of state as he was just a dirty secret. The President of Russia was an infamous hardliner, a man cut from the same cloth as Alexei Sarov. The one thing Alex did not want to become was this man's puppet. He felt the man pushing to meet him directly after the death of his good friend and quasi-father was really shitty.

"What is really going on, Dima? Alexei died fourteen years, half my life away". A man he had known for less than two weeks. Just because he was the first person to try to be a father to the teenager, one too used to rejection and neglect. "That man was an absolute shit to me. It was a fucking nightmare. It took me years to get over how that bastard manipulated me with the one thing I'd always dreamed of, a proper family, a father, a home. I have always been true to the fact I have never considered the General my father. Equally, I'd be the first to admit I am not ideal son material."

"You refused any recognition for your bravery and sacrifice in 2001. You have never asked or expected special treatment, when you saved millions that day and saved Russia from another plunge into dictatorship and possibly Europe into war. Here and now, you are still struggling with your demons. Boris asked for you to be recognised for the bravery you showed. For being true to your ideals. That it be a matter of national pride that you are not sidelined because of secrecy and the need for preservation of the status quo." Dima looked at this man on edge, one who wanted to run as much from his grief as from this unexpected meeting.

It was the fifteen year old who broke the tension. "Look Mr. homophobic Asshole President is only going to do the minimum to appease the dying Boris. Its a clandestine night meeting, so the creep won't be tainted with being seen with a unrepentant deviant. Don't look so shocked Dimitry-baby. You're just as bad, the Sergeant is besotted with Sasha the dancer and totally cool with Alex Rider, psycho killer. Well, he is a total SAS nutcase, himself. Guys fall in love, fact. Both are consenting adults, fact, What they do in the privacy of their own home is up to them. Its not a big thing, strange and a bit sickening sweet, but its their life. I also agree that after everything Alex did back in the day, he deserves peace and happiness. All the spy shit should just be swept under the carpet. Let sleeping dogs lie. After fourteen years does any of it matter now. Let the General rest in peace. What benefit is it to draw attention to Sasha and blacken Sarov's name in the process?"

Alex chuckled darkly, "This means the wall of silence has been breached. I give it four weeks for full disclosure regarding Murmansk. The reporter on that cable channel has been digging, interviewing survivors. Its only a matter of time until someone connects that the timeline for MI6's teen agent corresponds the CIA and the FSB's operations. Its a matter of public record that I was at Point Blanc. One person already nearly broke the story in 2002, only he pissed off Desmond McCain and died for his efforts. I'm not going to be so lucky in this age of instant communications."

…..

Dimitri took care of Pyotr, promising to look after the exile's son on pain of a fate worse than death. "You look after him or you'll have to face Luci. People think Vladimir has a bad temper. The petite ballerina is pure she-devil, had to be to tame and domesticate that man. You should hear all the shit he got up to from his first wife. Luciana plays dirty, subtle with it. Shit Dima, she had me sussed in days."

"Right Pyotr, son of a she-devil. Lets go have an after hours tour of the Tsar's apartments. Its meant to be haunted."

Alex was shown to the President's office by his personal guards.

When the man paused, Alex politely bowed and greeted the Head of State "Good Evening Your excellency, my condolences for Russia's loss today."

The man had been reading through letters and emails from the Foreign Office and State Department. "Please sit down, Alex. As you see, already the messages of condolence are pouring in. The state media are in mourning. Borya was a popular man with many friends in Russia and abroad. He will have a full state funeral. You, at the insistence of the man and his daughters, with be seated with the family mourners. They think of you as a freelance dancer, your stage career over; the American son of an exiled General. You are so much more. Russia has failed to support and honour you. The Russian Federation owes you a debt that cannot be repaid, because of the security blackout. I am not going to dishonour Boris by disgracing the friend he fought so had to protect. His one mistake. He should have protected you."

Tea and small almond biscuits were served by the president's silent secretary,

"I want for nothing, Your Excellency. I have a home, work, friends and love in England. I have my own strange family in New York. I am replete. I know my limits. I am a damaged man, the damage done many years ago, I endure, but all victories have a cost." Alex sipped the hot sweet tea. Thankful to be able to quench his thirst. "It has been a fraught day. I… I need to mourn my dear friend. One I am more than happy to acknowledge as almost a father."

The President smiled "The medals you refused as a fourteen year old are still awaiting the Hero of the Russian Federation. Not one but three. I humbly ask again, Alexander John Rider, please accept these mere tokens of our appreciation … the Medal "For Interaction with the FSB of Russia", Hero of the Russian Federation and the Medal for Courage. These medals have been waiting since 2001."

Alex could not help but be pulled back into the memories of that bleak quay in the Barents Sea.

Andrei Tshaikov could relate to the trauma of war, as covert operations were the theatre of the cold war and the war on terror; also the balance of power between the superpowers. "Anyone who has been under fire, who has seen combat, who has endured terror and death is affected by these events. I have my own demons from my days protecting Russia as a soldier in the Security Services. You were a child, yet you fought like a man, were a true hero and we noticed you were breaking, but your handlers in London, Washington and Sydney continued to use you."

"I was already well and truly broken… my uncle hurt and manipulated me for years… fashioned me into a weapon. I am not a hero." Alex rubbed his eyes, " Boris wanted this didn't he? If I accept these tokens, I would request that this draws a line under the Murmansk incident. I wish to go home and do nothing of any importance ever again. I am no longer a player. I beg you not think of me as anything except a man recovering and attempting to rebuild my life after surviving those horrific feats."

"You of all people deserve a quiet life. You have your friend Paul Roscoe watching your back. I will make sure we never forget you are a true friend of Russia, showing us all that standing up and courting death to fight for what is right and proving your uncle did not destroy you. You are a principled young man and one with strong morales. I take it you will keep the name Maria Makarova gifted you?"

"Yes, I am definitely Sasha Makarov. Alex Rider ran away and someone else came home."

…..

The TV news across the world saw Boris Kiriyenko's State Funeral , with his daughters and grandchildren standing with the ballet dancer, Sasha Makarov. To the press in general, this alone proved that his birth name of the former principal of Novosibirsk Ballet was Aleksandr Alexeyevich Sarov, Those with an eye to detail noted three decorations on the American's suit, all Russian. The medal for interaction with the FSB with crossed swords was not a mere trinket for a life devoted to the arts, but recognition for work in espionage, defending mother Russia more than once with bravery and heroism.

"Finally we get to stay with Alia." Alex sighed, glad that he would be above to relax after being on his best behaviour and only being able to sneak short conversations with his lover. Katya and Xenia never alluded to Alex's illicit London partner or any of his serious love affairs. Here, to be polite there was no out and proud, just tolerated as an eccentric at best or a pervert at worst.

They were walking across Moscow, still in their funeral attire. Their belongings already delivered to the apartment on ulitsa Ostozhenka. "Alia's at work until 7, want to just go chill for a bit. Find an American bar eat burgers and drink either Coke or milkshakes?"

"Sold… need a place that does Kareoke as well. I need cheering up. That's always good for a laugh. Sing some Beyonce and the world will right itself. Better if you get mom to sing as well, but we can invite Alia to embarrass herself."

"Do you really think she'll let you join her class if you piss yourself laughing at her rapping along to hard core Russian protest songs. You poor innocent child, that woman will wipe the floor with both of us."

As it was early, there were only a few tables occupied and no singers. Alex was filled to bursting after consuming a double cheeseburger, fries and three cokes and felt sufficiently American again and started to scroll down to pick a song. "You got your iPhone on you? Video this and then post it on my Instagram." As the fifteen year old pressed record. Alex smiled sadly and said "This is for Boris, He will be sorely missed."

…

It was after midnight in Moscow, when Alex rang his beloved Niall. "I ache for you, darling; but I'm diverting to New York in two days to take Petrushka home for a week after all this excitement. Can you drop everything at such short notice to join me?"

"I'll see. I ache for you too. Its been less than a week and I feel empty without you. My lovely dancer, I'm hard now. Wanting you more than I have ever wanted anything. Are you hard for me too?"

Alex bit his lip at that image. "Yes, but I'm saving myself for the real deal, your monster cock buried in my arse. Fuck, its like I'm in the Twilight Zone as no one mentions you or the fact I'm completely happy to be in a homosexual relationship. You and me… we're just so easy and right. As usual I decide love's a bag of crap and I fall head over heals again. Need you in New York, we can stay at Paul's place. Well, Paul's place for guests. Mr Paranoia much. You have to meet him and be really lewd. He hates it when I hit on him."

"How could he turn you down? You do know I'm wanking right now. If this was FaceTime you could watch me slapping percy."

"Bastard, I'm not going to spoil our reunion. I will be fucking desperate by then. Talk to you tomorrow. Sort a flight out, OK?"

…

Alex could not resist the temptation to dance in Moscow. He was loose and limber after class and his accomplice had his video camera set up. Dima and Alia were acting as lookouts. With minutes to his illegal performance, the dancer phoned Grennady Titov, only to be put through to voicemail.

"Esteemed Director, Its Sasha Makarov. Just to let you know I'm dancing on your front steps. Just a little thing I threw together for our Independence Day. Flying out tonight. See you at the end of the month, I have tickets for the Flames of Paris."


	11. Chapter 11

Marc de Winter finished writing up his piece on his 48 hours with Sasha Makarov in New York. He was due to land in less than an hour, back in London on a Monday night. Would he be lucky enough to see Sasha Makarov dance in person again? That he doubted. All the mystery over the future seemed to be linked to those decorations the dancer had worn in Moscow, a child hero. All questions about them had been answered with 'classified'.

…

 _It was a strange set of circumstances that led to me to witness the conception, rehearsal and recording of the latest of the guerrilla dance pieces that have become the trademark of former Novosibirsk and Sydney Principal Male, Sasha Makarov. These works have been a collaboration with Dave Meadows. The artist has publicly stated that the dancer himself has been the driving force behind these ballet performance art posts on Youtube, with locations in London, Paris and Moscow._

 _An interview had been arranged with Sasha, only he had unexpectedly returned to New York after the funeral of his close friend, Boris Kiriyenko. I had assumed the interview would be rearranged, only for a Roscoe Industries Intern to ring me to arrange a pick up for a private jet to New York. A flight I was sharing with Niall Cooper and Genevieve Durrant, Sasha's nearest and dearest in London._

 _It turns out that the London born American dancer had attended boarding school with Paul Roscoe and that they were still close friends. I was going to be in the unenviable position of not only meeting the reclusive billionaire, but staying at his Manhattan apartment. Before I left London, I signed a very comprehensive and air tight non-disclosure agreement, presented by the grey suited lawyer; which means, much to my editor's dismay, I cannot include any details about Mr. Roscoe, his plane or his New York midtown residence._

 _Much has been written about Sasha Makarov, but very little has been confirmed by the man himself. I first met him in 2005, at the London Palladium for his solo performance of one of Manfred Schnagel's finest pieces. The partnership of the raw and exceptionally talented adopted son of Maria Makarova and the late blooming of the out of favour German choreographer, which produced a wealth of fantastic modern pieces and the emergence of a new and very short lived dance company. The tragic and untimely death of Schnagel had robbed the dance world of a true visionary. His former principal has become a choreographer of high renown himself._

 _My travelling companions were witty and affable, I was soon conversing in French with both. Ms. Durrant having fun with the Yorkshire-man's accent, despite his excellent fluency, before discussing the man who had persuaded her to perform again._

 _Our conversation soon drifted to discuss Sasha's early career with Manfred Schnagel, where his talent was fashioned by stunning and daring Modern pieces reflecting the young American's classical training._

….

Genevieve Durrant had read Marc de Winter's articles on the Telegraph and Dance magazine over the years; when she had made an easy transition from dancer to mother and teacher after a brief career in Paris. Her divorce had been a relief in many ways, after her husband's serial infidelity.

"I first met Sasha, like yourself in 2005, when he attended my class to learn from a student of his hero, Nureyev. It was just after his nose correction and he was still taped up; so before his debut in London at the Palladium. He boldly stated the surgeon had promised he would be the image of his hero. I can only say the nose was straight, but it was still very natural on his face. As one who had worked with Maria Makarova's pupils in the past, I could see his mother's teachings in his every move. Sasha told me that Maria had only seen Rudolf dance twice, when as she was teaching and dancing at Perm in the late fifties, as she had exiled herself from Leningrad after the death of her second husband. That old woman knew everyone and told Sasha a great deal about all the skeletons in every dancer's cupboards. She was a wily and gifted blackmailer, not for money or power, but her own evil amusement.

"After our third lesson, he boldly stated that my retirement was a travesty. That I should still be on stage and was as good as any principal he had seen or partnered. I took it to be the flattery of an eighteen year old novice, only he had already danced with every principal and soloist who attended Maria's classes in New York. It was only last year when he sent me his notes on his own composition and had rejected staging it in the traditional way, but asked me on my thoughts on splitting his variation into three separate video shoots. Quite out of the blue he ensnared me in his plans. I have been fortunate to be involved from the inception of all three pieces, his solo and the pas de deux, both filmed in London, and the finale for four dancers in Paris. I am so happy to enjoy such a close, fraught and difficult artistic collaboration with a dancer and choreographer of such talent. Difficult because Sasha thrives with you deconstructing his art to improve, challenge and evolve his raw outline. The music provided by his friend Cassian is also divine. You will get to meet the composer in New York as well."

….

 _The dancer has a close group of friends, whom he has known since his teenage years; all of whom are convinced performance art is truly Sasha's chosen medium. His life as a ballet principal now relegated to the background, not withstanding the rumours circulating of guest appearances in Russia next year._

 _Early on Saturday, I was eating a light breakfast of fruit, buckwheat porridge and black tea. It was not only a meal but a strategy meeting for the next shoot._

 _"_ _I was bored on the flight home, I bounced a few ideas off Pyotr and well, this is the rough result." A two page sheet of notation was given to all attendees. "So, class and eight to ten hours of rehearsals today. Dinner at Luigi's avec ma famille and the guys from school. Rehearsal, run-through and shoot tomorrow. Then wrap party at Paul's corporate headquarters, though I'm assuming that. Dave has scouted the location, which is private and with no permit problems or any likelihood of getting arrested, not like Moscow." Alex smiled, happy for this short period of being busy, busy, busy again._

 _Niall then leaned over to whisper to the journalist, "Genevieve is here to calm manic Sasha down. He gets caught in his own thoughts sometimes when his creativity goes into overdrive and for ten days he's had no-one to check him. She just says no and he automatically stops and listens, I guess she reminds hm of his mother, Maria. For all that old woman's faults, she totally supported and nurtured this lost boy. She taught him unconditional love, a concept completely foreign to the neglected and abused orphan. His life has been guided by kind women, his support across the years from Maria, Lola, Luci, Cindy, Alia, Martika, Annie and even the contrary Tania. His lovers have been the duality of good and bad; for all the bad press Manfred has received he was completely besotted with his muse. You should get Sasha to describe his bad case of the green eyed monster when Serge arrived on the scene. That boy was trouble, flirting nonstop with Manfred. I still wonder what became of him after he ran out on Cindy. Not a word either good or bad in nearly five years. Then again, he might have gone back to using his real name."_

 _I wondered on the last statement for a moment before realising Niall was Cindy's uncle, the ex-wife of Serge St. Clair, the third member of Sasha's Troika Dance Group._

 _That day I saw Sasha work like a demon, laugh and argue with his dance partner, Dave Meadows over the angles and concept of the proposed final edit and his lover Niall, over his zeal and encroaching mania._

…

Paul Roscoe disliked his childhood home immensely. The mansion of Fifth Avenue was a prime piece of Real Estate and was currently empty after his Grandmother had relocated to Miami. He had decided to sell this white elephant worth tens of millions. The roof garden had at one time been his mother's pride and joy. Tomorrow he and his fellow survivors from Point Blanc would join Alex in his video shoot, then party the night away. Even Hugo was here, a man that despised Roscoe Industries, Communications, Robotics and Holdings.

There were the eight t-shirts for the video shoot/party.

Paul - Paranoid boss of everything

James - Money Manager

Nicholas - Sporting Superstar

Tom - Motorcycle Enthusiast

Joe - Conspiracy Theorist

Hugo - Anti Globalisation Protestor

Dimitri - Future President

Alex - Escape Artist

Cassian - Music Maestro

The tall blond rubbed his face, he was still feeling guilty over Alex. The whole personality construct cobbled together by that abused and destroyed child had crumbled after he had taken on two clean up jobs with a side order of blackmail. It was only a matter of time until the press started to unravel Alex's past. There were at least two journalists hot on the tail of the Murmansk Incident and Paul had already cleared Edward Pleasure for the scoop on Point Blanc, if that happened.

The billionaire had met his match in the unassuming and capable barista Alex was dating. Niall had just grinned when Paul had offered his help with an escape plan. "Look, you have no need to worry on that score. Alex can change everything about himself if needed, its like flipping a switch for him and well I was in charge of the escape and evade exercise for over a decade. Not one escapee on my watch. God, I remember mine like it was yesterday, let loose in the back end of Wales, dressed in 1944 battle dress, no money, no map and the cunts who know every inch of Brecons on your tail. I made it to London on my third day and rang in for a pick up. No morals is a must, after a seven mile hike at night with the bastards right on my tail, I nicked a tourist's car with backpack in the boot. Parked it at Bristol Parkway, went to Birmingham first, then Leicester and finally the big smoke. Keeping to urban centres, keep moving, you are just one of a crowd. Just between you and me, I did four years undercover in Russia in the 1990's. No fucker is going to catch me, not when I trained the bastards how to track. Trick is to keep all your own ideas to yourself. Think outside of the box, even with dance Alex is not constrained by any limits, look at his viewing figures, he's touching people who will never see inside of an opera house. Our plan is to still do the performance art, keeping Sasha happy and settle when he wants."

Had his friend picked his new life companion for his obvious skills? Alex was always been moving three steps ahead of the game playing in his head. He had known this Sergeant since he was 14. Had his gaydar been working then? The teenager had seen another outsider with masks on, fitting into a mould, hiding their true selves. Paul could laugh, he was also hiding behind his corporate image. These seven others were only the few who knew the grieving son with serious paranoia issues. Even Hugo tolerated Paul, as he understood the businessman was driven to uphold his father's empire. The money meant little, he would eventually pass control over to the various boards and redistribute his personal fortune into charitable causes and foundations. Maybe he would plan an escape like Alex, just travel and be carefree; but that was unlikely. Of all of them he was likely to end up a lonely and crazy recluse, relying on his aides and assistants. His friends would fight to prevent that.

…..

 _The roof garden overlooking Fifth Avenue provided a perfect backdrop to the minimalist piece danced to the disjointed and melancholy composition by Cassian James. I had seen how Genevieve had stripped away all that was unnecessary to streamline the idea to the concept of a man breaking free of constraints, ballet and illusion mixed as the dancer started with basic escapology of removing a straight jacket alluding to his own stints in psychiatric care and his escape from the tyranny of pain and memory._

 _The evening ended in a ballroom lit with Venetian chandeliers, reflected and refracted by the mirrors lining the walls. The house elsewhere empty of furniture, ready for sale. Dave Meadows sat in the corner editing with Pyotr Stavenkov and Niall Cooper. The guests of family, friends and Roscoe Industry employees danced to the music provided by Cassian's small band, drank champagne and ate the catered buffet . I feel this is an end of one phase of Sasha's performances or the beginning of something new._

 _I am already anticipating the next alert to a download. Ballet has broken through the constraints of stage performance to a global entity. Who knows who will be inspired by Sasha to dance and choreograph? I for one see Pyotr Stravenkov following in his foster brother's footsteps. The fifteen year old already planning to be a conceptual artist using dance as his medium._


	12. Chapter 12

Gregori had finally understood the hard lesson that actions have consequences. His eight year old sister, Nina, had still not forgiven him for his short tempered retaliation over a box of cereal, which had led to her favourite 'brother' to leave home and not move back. At this strange party, his parents were dancing like the professionals they were; but he was sat watching the slow dancing of Sasha and his husband Niall. The retired soldier was a contradiction, a decorated hero, but also newly out and proud. The thirteen year old had not impressed his mother and father with his homophobic comments about Sasha two years ago.

He really did not know Sasha. He was fascinated by the Russian medals Sasha had worn in Moscow, which added to the conspiracy linking the teenage Aleksandr to 'Sarov', his probable 'father', and the late President. The retired ballet star continued to repudiate the General. Gregori had over heard his parents talk about fourteen year old Sasha witnessing Sarov shooting himself in Murmansk. The thirteen year old already knew Sasha had been in a clinic in Murmansk because of that. Pyotr had spoken of the three days of family mourning with his new Aunties, who had posted over a box of cookies for Petrushka and his family. His brother now spoke of playing football and strip poker with cousins and dancing with his BFF Alia. The eldest Stravenkov sibling had emerged from his brief period of self doubt as a newly emerged swan, in love with contemporary ballet and likely to leave home next year to attend class in London, another thing Nina was dreading. Gregori pondered the puzzle of his siblings close relationship with the cuckoo, who was home for Thanksgiving with the news that he had gotten married. What had Niall promised the broken hero? Was the strange interloper now happy? It sounded like the couple were settled in London, buying and renovating houses. No adventures and no dancing projects mentioned, it really sounded like Sasha had retired, found love and moved back to London permanently.

It was then that Gregori noticed the stern concentration on Nina's face as she watched the same pair dancing. She who was used to being everyone's favourite had yet to decide if she accepted Niall into the family. The retired soldier had bought her a new pair of shoes, one's she was wearing tonight, which suggested his sister had been effectively bought. The music changed to Taylor Swift and the blond girl then skipped over to her brother and demanded "Dance with me, now. Properly and do not mark my new shoes."

….

The dinner Luci had presented had been sumptuous and perfection, cooked by the team of Pyotr, Luci and Sasha. Niall was cleaning up the kitchen as Frank, Luci's father, nursed a cup of coffee. No alcohol had been served, the retired soldier pulled out his emergency hip flask and offered "20 year old malt, if you're interested."

"Thank god, I thought everyone had all taken the pledge."

"Sasha thinks Luci's pregnant, still too early on to let anyone know. She was drinking wine at Paul's party in the summer"

"So, Sasha's still clean and sober?"

"Yeah, am I mostly. I save drinking for my nights out with guys from the regiment. Few that they are. Sasha steers clear of my Army buddies. Who, for the most part, are uncultured sods." The retired army instructor smiled reminiscing about Wolf meeting Sasha and not recognising his former team mate. The dancer had sneered at the soldiers and gone out for dinner with Paul.

…

Alex let himself in and looked around their new project, as Niall was picking up a strimmer and mulcher from the Tool Hire place in Tooting this morning. The terraced house in Wandsworth had already been cleared of the dated kitchen units, ancient boiler and the next job was for the existing bathroom extension to be demolished and a new two storey rear extension built, but they were awaiting approval of their planning application. The house had three bedrooms and two reception rooms. Solid structurally and had been a bargain because of the overgrown garden, which was dumped with rubbish and the previous bad DIY updates to the interior of the house. The profit from the sale of the flat and coffee shop leasehold had financed this project. They still lived in their garret abovee and owned the freehold.

A replacement skip had already been delivered and left at the rear. The retired dancer went upstairs into the front bedroom, where his beloved had erected a bar in front of the large mirrored wardrobe for him to exercise. He turned on the electric heater first, as the room was cold. Nail had boarded the floor and laid vinyl. This room would be the last they'd renovate. On the opposite wall were pinned up the plans, décor mood boards and the detailed chart of when everything was due to be completed, a January finish. Alex stretched and went through his warm up. The routine of class, even on his own set him up for his day as garden labourer.

As he went through his positions to the music on Radio 3, he was at peace with his simple life. Not an artist, not a dancer, not in the spotlight, just living day to day with Niall. He only sporadically kept in touch with his friends. The only difference was today he had left his phone at home while he worked. No distractions, just manual labour from 8 til 5.

Niall Cooper came through the back door, having parked his van next to the skip. He could hear the steady thuds of the dancer upstairs practicing jumps. He put on the kettle to make two cups of coffee and had a bag containing four bagels with cream cheese, hoping the breakfast passed muster as his phone calls to his partner in crime had gone unanswered. He arrived upstairs with breakfast to find Alex stretching to cool down as the nine o clock news headlines started.

"Where's your phone, babe? I tried to call you at 8."

Alex shrugged "Back at the flat."

Niall passed over the cup of black coffee. "Not like you to be incommunicado."

Avoidance and denial never worked with his beau. Alex had to come clean. "Graeme wants me to visit, as in work not play. I…. I would rather not go."

"Just say that to him, I'm sure it'll be fine. Say your on sabbatical." Niall was not pushing for Alex to return to dancing, not when his lover had not been to formal class since the summer.

Looking out of the window at the leafless plane tree outside, Alex laid bare the contents of the email that had made him switch off his phone. "He's thinking of staging one of Manfred's works. He wants my input. Its eight years too late for that for me. Not helped by the fact, that two timing cunt in Oz bleated on about Manfred's lost and forgotten repertoire and look how well that turned out. Its not my call, anyway. I've moved on. I got closure the hard way." Alex pulled out a bagel and smiled that it was topped in poppy seeds, his favourite. "It's likely to sour my friendship with the great artistic director when I refuse to cooperate."

"I'm sure Graeme is well aware its a sore subject. He's probably just being polite and running it by you for your approval considering." Niall had no reason to be jealous anymore, but he had been a green eyed monster; when he'd fallen hook line and sinker for eighteen year old Sasha.

"Zen… only here and now." Hard life lessons had taught the dancer, Fuck the past. Fuck the pain, the loss and the fact he was still so angry that Manfred had left, proving that he was nothing more than a love struck fool. "I'm so frightened you'll go too." Alex whispered.

Empathy spiked as Niall as he hugged his beloved. "There are no certainties in life, beautiful. We're both realists, we're both survivors. I was sure I was a goner after that fuckup in 1999. We've both been through shit. I'm strong, fit and you are my soul mate. I'll fight for you, I'll run with you. Our plans are in place either way. No lies from me, No lies from you and it'll work out. We both have our avoidance and denial moments."

Alex loved the feel of muscles, the warmth radiating off his lover. He stroked his fingers and palms over his lover's strong hands, feeling mutual callouses and abrasions from manual work.

Niall laid down the law "Best resolve this before it festers. I'll ring Covent Garden and get a meeting arranged for you today. Play my full pissed off sergeant, to get you in ASAP."

Alex gripped his lover's hands and bemoaned this interruption to their tight schedule "We want the garden cleared, so demolition can start." Their planning permission was due to be approved this week.

"We can get the bulk of the vegetation strimmed down anyway. Let me phone to arrange this meeting. Sooner its booked in and over, the sooner its resolved." Niall did not add, his suspicion that Sasha would be dancing again, probably not a Schnagel piece though. He had been waiting for the dancing bug to bite his love again.

…

The Artistic Director of the Royal Ballet arrived at 10:30, to note the change in his schedule as Sasha Makarov was visiting after lunch. He sighed thinking about the mountain of problems over the Schnagel Archive and wondered if Sasha had any input, considering the notes supplied by Bernd Schnagel had been sparse and barely fit for purpose. Manfred Schnagel's last works were possibly all but lost due to his untimely death and poor record keeping. The piece performed by Sasha at the Amnesty Concert was only recorded as a poor quality video from the night and the last full ballet was barely ten pages of notation to accompany the music.

Graeme was surprised at the rough appearance of Sasha Makarov and his husband Bernard Niall Cooper. Both men looked like navvies, dressed in mismatched army surplus workwear and sporting two days growth of stubble. Sasha even had a pair of protective glasses in his pocket. "Darling Sasha, it's lovely to see you again; but it looks like you're working on a building site?"

Alex smiled "Not far off, Graeme, garden clearing at the moment. We're getting our new house ready for its extension, new garage, remodelled patio and relaying the lawn. Maybe planting a few fruit trees as well. We ripped out the kitchen last week and put new thermal lagging in the loft. Luci loves the fabrics and wall paper I've picked as accents and features. That's all a way off yet. Niall's doing all the heavy stuff, I'm just acting as gopher and general dogsbody."

Graeme had spoken to both Viktor, Vladimir and Ludmilla about Sasha, but the former principal was retired from classical ballet, a fact that broke his heart. "Still dancing, I hope?"

Alex shrugged "Only to keep fit. Not been to class or anything. Genevieve is run off her feet with full books. Pyotr is coming here next year for the summer school, which will be fun. We're both looking forward to that. Nina wants to dance as well, so you might get her as a boarder in three years."

"How is Dave's film progressing?" The director wondered if fear of publicity accompanying the documentary was the reason Aleksandr was in seclusion with his very stoic lover.

"Still busy editing. He plans to premiere it at Sundance. I'm meant to be there for the publicity and such. The posters are abstract, which I like. I'll invite you round when he's sort of happy with it. Glad I don't have to cut hundreds of hours of video down to something both artistic, emotionally resonant and meaningful. I'm just a sociopath with a passion for dance." Alex looked around the neat office, noting the schedules and rotas. "So, what to you want to know about Manfred's work? You got approval from Bernd so run with it, pick young talent, it'll be great." Alex knew he sounded half hearted, he knew he could have made their planned ballet a hit in 2008.

"The piece you danced in 2005, there are no notes in the archive. A letter attached to Manfred's will states he gave the piece to you."

"I have the notes in a safe deposit box in New York. I also have hours of rehearsal videos for that and his later work. Dave has them all. I'll get him to drop box you the digital copies."

"The notes in New York? Can I have a copy?"

"I'll show you the dance, you can take notes and video it. Bernd was enough of a prick over Manfred's stuff I was sure he'd to sue me over three bits of A4, which happen to have both my and Manfred's genetic material on it. One reason its not suitable for lending out."

….

Alex paced the rehearsal room and plugged in his iPod. He pulled off his work clothes, down to the shorts he'd worn this morning for his exercises. No shoes, no tape, no costume needed. This was Niall's favourite piece, on he had not danced since Manfred's death.

He lay on the floor, arms protecting his head, legs drawn up to protect his stomach. Then the play back of the football game started. As he sat down, the music drowned out by shouts and screams. The piece over. Alex wept for love and loss. Grief had its hooks in him and the pain dulled but never truly dissipated.


	13. Chapter 13

Alex threw the paper down. Another piece for the scrapbook with Paparazzi photos of him labouring, with the drivel sideline accompanying saying he was in full disassociation again. He had only bought the vile piece of trash after Dave had texted him cheekily asking if hobo-chic was in fashion on Page 7 of the Mail. The Arts Correspondent had also called him the most unique talent in Ballet since Nureyev and his retirement due to his mental health issues as a travesty. He was slightly bemused that he still made the news, because he was not creating art, not dancing, not posting videos and ignoring social media. He had been worn out last summer, after completing his arc of choreographed pieces. Niall had insisted on a few days at the clinic in New York for his exhaustion. Since then, his quiet, unassuming and understanding dom had been perfection.

There was a noticeable emptiness without dance, but he had no drive to create. Life was not art at the moment. His life revolved around Niall and his project. He was happy with that. Happy to just be. Dancing for Graham last week, had not rekindled his drive. Just made him acutely aware of grief for a lost life, connecting to a part of his past that was just sorrow and disappointment of lost dreams. Even, the idea of performing made him feel sick with self doubt and fear. He had ignored four messages from the the Artistic Director of the Royal Ballet, though he knew Niall had answered them, probably stating that the retired dancer was working through his issues at the moment. Issues that included killing people and his self destructive tendencies. Guilt, doubt and fear over his past actions washed over him. This therapist stated this was promising, that his personality disorder was being managed as he was fully aware of his past and healing. He deserved this semi-seclusion with no pressure or expectations.

Without his alters, there was no hiding from his past. It had been much easier being Sasha, now he had to confront his anger, despair, the weight of loss and the fact he was a trained assassin as much as a dancer. It had been easier hiding. Niall had been with him every step on this final step of the healing process. Talking about the fractured parts that made up the whole and an confronting all he wanted to hide. In reflective mood, he pulled out his journal and wrote the anger over his lack of creative drive and the lies in the press. Very few people knew the real Alex Rider, only the fabrication that was Sasha Makarov. He then pondered, should he be proactive and go visit Dave and Genevieve. Maybe email Ludmilla for advice. His friends had been supportive over his need for space and rest. If only he'd listened to Luci two years ago and taken therapy seriously then.

Dance had been his first step on the road to healing, his career had never been the centre of the universe. He smiled at that truth. Niall was the centre of his universe and he could only hope and pray this equilibrium lasted. Alex then touched his plain titanium wedding ring. Their vows had been brief and to the point "mine yours together". It had been a simple civil ceremony with only Paul McAllaster and Cyn Cooper as witnesses at Wandsworth Register Office.

Niall arrived home, it had been a long but productive week, as the block work on the extension had started. Niall busy with running the job and Alex acting as general labourer. This afternoon Alex had been to see his therapist. Sopping on the way home for their supper a simple feast of olives, baguette, Brie and pâté accompanied by a nice burgundy. Alex had managed half a glass of Pinot Noir before making a pot of coffee. He just did not like wine much either red, white, rose or sparkling.

Tonight they were invited to one of Paul's small parties, where the gangster would have about fifty guests at the opening of his new riverside bar restaurant. Most of the invitees would be shady characters but with a sprinkling of celebrities slumming it for added notoriety. Alex had already showered and dressed smart casual in his eclectic mix of soft loose trousers and cashmere top. His hair had grown to collar length and he had styled it into soft waves.

Niall Cooper freshly showered and dressed in a dark combo of designer sweater and linen, looking fine with his short grey hair and trimmed beard.

Alex suddenly wanted to forgo socialising and spend the night upstairs in their playroom. "Fuck, you make me horny, old man."

"Less of the old. You have given Paul four rain checks since our wedding. We are going, we are dancing and if you want we can fuck there."

"Promise?"

Niall smiled at how Alex had changed him from uptight and closeted to open and risqué. "Anything to keep you happy."

….

Clara Byrant, the 27 year old principal ballerina at Sydney was happy to have a bit of downtime from both her sister and work commitments. She was here looking for a diversion, be that good conversation and maybe connecting with Sasha Makarov, who was a close friend of tonight's host. It was a long shot as Graeme Rawlings had warned her that Alex was practically in hiding.

At the bar, she had paused from networking to chat with the barman, another Aussie. When she heard her old friend exclaim "Darling, it's fabulous to see you. I didn't know you were in London?"

"Last minute guest replacement for Suzie at the ENB, she ruptured her Achilles." Clara had been to visit her friend and rival in hospital. The principal would be out of action for months, not just missing a few guest appearances but new season as well.

With a kiss and a hug, Alex introduced his husband. "Clara, this is my one and only Niall Cooper."

After two mojito's, Clara clarified her need to seek out her old friend. "The creep I'm paired with is getting to me. He's practically hazing me. He's handsy and lewd. God, I miss you, Sasha. You were always a gentleman. You always put me first, made me feel like a princess."

Alex swirled his glass of coke , but it was Niall who suggested "I think you need to meet Mr. McAllaster and ask his advice."

The ballerina asked "Rich and single?"

With a snort Alex piped up, "Yeah, sort of, he's more Mob matchmaker. Oh, he loves ballet dancers. He'll fix you up with a rich boy. Paul will get you someone real nice for the few weeks you're here. No strings, no awkward betrothals and no asking for committment. Those were the days, I partied nonstop after Manfred left me."

"You understand me. I dropped wanting commitment after Mitch. My sister, Gia is a proper Stepford wife and thinks I'm an old maid. I am dancing until I drop. No kids, no husbands, but lots of great sex is preferable. Look at you Sasha, you get hitched, make a happy home and stop dancing. Not me. I'm in for the long run."

"How about a compromise, I attend class with you as your BFF and we go to a few of Paul's parties. Even Niall likes Paul's parties." The club owner partied seriously to network as his business was entertainment. "Best bit is as a guest, you get to be a real voyeur on how the proper party animals live. Better than any David Attenborough natural history programme. It's all wonderfully outrageous."

"Having a friend at class would be a godsend. I think Daniel has been bad mouthing me to all the company. Most talk behind my back. Its a nightmare."

It sounded like every dance company he'd danced with to Alex. He's always been an outsider and at the mercy of the gossip's sharp tongues.

Paul sipped his Gin and Tonic and moved to network with the man who had married Sasha Makarov. The club, bar and restaurant owner had always liked Cyn's uncle. He had expected the old soldier to have the umbrage over his niece working in his strip club back in the day, but Sergeant Cooper was up front nice and pleasant; but was a man who knew life was never that kind and work was often less than pleasant. Dear Sasha had given enough hints that Niall had been at the hard end of undercover work in Russia for MI6 and had retired to the soft option of instructing the SAS recruits in escape and evade. Both men had the common ground of fighting to survive in a dog eat dog world and living with hard decisions. The man had killed and like Alex, he hid his darker side well.

"Its good to see Alex comfortable again. Its been a hard few years and you, sir, have been the making of him. I never thought he'd let himself love again after Manfred passed. You keep him safe. Don't let him dwell on the past. You're right keeping him focused on here and now. So, how's our plan shaping up for getting him dancing again?"

"It was a bit of a disaster with Graeme last week. Alex has no intention of getting involved in their Schnagel revival. The stager got a full video from the archives as well as Alex showing them through his Amnesty piece, but its not going to get my babe dancing on stage again. I'll get you copy of that, he was glorious. I think being back in Moscow would be a better bet, but I'm still blacklisted by the FSB and well, I don't fancy 20 to 30 years in a gulag if I turn up there without a visa." Niall smiled ruefully at the FUBAR that had him survive the ultimate escape and evade; when his handler had rolled him to be liquidated by the Russians. That bastard was siting pretty in Solitary at Her Majesty's Pleasure for Treason. "So, are you going to fix Clara up with one of your lonely friends?"

"Yeah, a real sweetie with money to burn. Just divorced a real shrew of a bitch and could do with a bit of R&R himself."

…..

As Alex got out of the car at 2AM, he turned to his partner and conspirator. "Nice try, Cooper, but I'm well shot of all the bitches. I dance again, its for me and on my own terms. Its not like I could get anything more than an occasional guest spot anyway, so why fucking bother. I've worked through any and all ambition I once had."

Niall opened the door and then turned to Alex. "I feel like the luckiest bastard on the planet as you still dance everyday and I get to see you. You are so beautiful. They way you move. You know I fell for you in 2005, when I saw you dance at the Palladium. I … I don't deserve you. I just want you to be happy."

Alex pondered the fact his love was willing to go to the ends of the earth for him, let him dance, even go where he could not follow, for his happiness. "You sap. You are all the audience I need."

...

Alex and Clara arrived for class, the pair easily carrying on their conversation as they started to stretch at the bar. The Ballet Master recognised the elusive Sasha Makarov, but did not single him out. If the dancer was starting class again, it meant he was getting better. Steve Longman would ring Graeme with the good news later on. First he had a dance company to whip into shape.


	14. Chapter 14

Park City, Utah was a strange place to have a movie festival in Alex's opinion, not when he'd prefer to be here for the excellent powder rather than this hullabaloo. He was here with Dave; unfortunately not accompanied by his beau, who was still in London. His action plan for being more creative had him accompanying the artist to promote his documentary, which BBC Films were distributing. "Dance is life" was an amalgamation of hundreds of hours of footage from Dave's collaborations with Sasha over the last ten years. The BBC team had gone all out with keeping their star turn happy with a production assistant asking fifty times a day if he was fine or if he needed anything. Here he was in the hired dance studio space at 8AM going through a complex routine to chase away his doubts and fears over today's screening and press conference.

He was worrying about containment of his past misdeeds. The former spy and trained assassin knew it was inevitable that the life and times of Alex Rider would be leaked. That a trickle of information exposing him would allow Edward Pleasure full disclosure as he had a hard drive full of classified and incriminating documents. Details of Point Blanc were in the open; but without the real story breaking, no one knew about the Grief clones yet or MI6's involvement. The news channel in Russia had preempted the opening of this film with an exposé of their own regarding Sarov, Kiriyenko and himself. Dima Ivanov had passed the info before Christmas that a soldier present in Murmansk during the failed coup d'etat had talked, not about the botched military takeover, the nuclear bomb or the fact Alex was CIA. Just about a 14 year old boy, handcuffed, beaten, whipped and threatened with execution. That Sasha had witnessed his 'father's' suicide. That Sarov had been insane and these events had caused the dancer's fragile metal state. There had been no mention of the disappearance of the Gardiner's or the fact they had been murdered. Not that Alex had watched the programme, just listened to Dima describe how shocking awful and tawdry it had been.

Dave arrived with two steaming cups of coffee and stood by the piano watching his good friend work out. As Alex finished and did an exaggerated bow, Dave clapped and cheerily appreciated his private show; "Bloody hell, Sasha. You are fucking amazing. I'd never get tired of watching you create and yes, I know that's a Makarov original. Your choreography is so fluid and sensual. Maybe you should team up with Cyn again. You two are quite a pair."

Alex stopped his freeflow and turned off the music. "A trip to Berlin is planned, we go about six to eight weeks to catch up. More a family visit; cause she still hasn't forgiven either me or you for those nude holograms. Don't know why, She has a great pair of tits"

"Less of that, considering you're family."

"Well, Cyn never let on Niall was interested. Not surprising since he was pretty much in the closet for twenty plus years while he was in the army. Mind you, I was no different at fourteen , Misha got me over my denial over my sexuality." Alex stretched to cool down, being true to yourself, that had been Misha's true gift to his young protege. That Russian gangster had shown him that his early dreams were not dead and buried. Ian's game plan was not his only option. With a long drink of excellent Columbian coffee, Alex then asked Dave about the press conference. Cheekily he asked, "So do I lie about meeting you at one of Paul's orgies?"

The artist shook his head and chuckled, "Stick to meeting through Mutual friends, no need to shock the old ladies in the audience, we'll keep it nice and polite. Hell, its not on my bio that me and Paul go way back; went to school together. Even kept in touch after I got into the local grammar. That man has always been a great friend, generous and such a laugh. He's more real than any hippie PC do-gooder or my fellow art school graduates."

Alex watched the screening with a mix of dread and nerves. He made note of every mistake and imperfection. All in all it was a strangely crafted piece, to see Dave's perspective on his personality disorder with clear distinctions emphasised by the editing. As the end titles rolled, the dancer leaned over a whispered to the director, "Do you think I'm getting better? My shrinks says I'm calmer and more contained, but what do you see?"

Dave Meadows had met Sasha in 2005, when the skinny 18 year old had caught Paul McAlaster's eye and become a firm favourite at all Paul's parties. His friend had been gob-smacked that Sasha Makarov, adopted son of a prima ballerina was dancing in his club. The artist and photographer had noticed that the kid acted different around Paul and it had taken him a few weeks to realise the kid was dangerous, a predator, except when dancing; when another softer incarnation was in control. "You've stopped assessing everyone and everything as a threat. It's like you mellowed out and put the past where is meant to be, as in mostly irrelevant to here and now. Must have been a shit load of hurt to fuel that much paranoia. Are you likely to dance professionally again or has all this head shrinking been the end of that?"

Alex shrugged "I can't be bothered with auditions as I never measuring up to the small minded expectations needed for classical dance. Maria called me a maverick, in sometimes wonder if it was because of ambivalence over fame rather than any unique talent. I wanted to dance, to dance up to her high expectations, but the spot light, being top dog, having fawning fans and all that was never part of my game plan. I thought I'd possibly make corps de ballet at a provincial company considering my patchy dance training record. It was Vladimir who pushed me to be a soloist and got me the audition for the American Ballet Theatre. I was not surprised when that went so well. Going back to London, I thought I was bottom of the pecking order. I was so chuffed getting a stripping job for Paul. Hell, I made a mint in tips as well, something I never thought would happen considering I was a scarred freak. It was only after working there for two months that I had enough money for plastic surgery." Alex was tailoring the truth slightly as he had done other far more dodgy jobs for serious pay offs, all due to his finely honed less than legal skills. "The quack, Manfred took me to, did a good job. Now all the residual marks can be covered with light stage make-up. Most times I don't bother, its all part of who I am."

Paul and Alex were joined by the Producer Christine Danby for the press junket. The first round of questions were for Paul concerning his jump from photography and art to film making. The Londoner making a big show of this film as just recording the art process from his Tate Modern exhibit to the series of video performance pieces partnering with Sasha; using the dancer body and choreography as the brush and paint and video as the canvas. "Sasha was the artist for these pieces. Me, I was just the medium, not even a director, a recorder and editor. My friend is the genius of human form as art."

The correspondent from the LA Times asked Sasha his first question, "Sasha, are you hoping to restart your stage career now, after your hiatus of nearly three years?"

He smiled and then shook his head in denial answering with a simple "no".

"Are you blacklisted as Viktor Turguniev has suggested?"

Alex shrugged and again gave a negative monosyllabic, "No"

"Are more video performances planned?"

Alex quashed his desire to laugh and again shook his head and said "No."

The former ballet principal recognised the Daphne from Primrose Hill, a freelance journalist and columnist for Dance Magazine. "Sasha darling, rumours are circulating that you are involved in the Royal Ballet's 2018 revival of Schnagel's last work, Embers. Are you returning to dance for that?"

Alex sighed, a question that deserved more than a plain single word denial. "I have provided a small input for the staging of the Prisoner Solo I danced in 2005. In truth, I had a bit of an emotional meltdown after dancing that piece for Director Montague, as my grief over Manfred is deep and raw. I was blacklisted by Manfred's brother when I tried to reform the company to premiere Embers in 2009, forbidden to sully his brother's memory with my bid to use his work to advance my career. So, no, I will not even act as an advisor for the revival of Embers. I know the Royal Ballet will do a wonderful staging, but I won't attend. Dave quite rightly said I have finally put the hurts in the past behind me and all of my time with Manfred is behind me, in the past, no longer relevant to me here and now".

…..

With the publicity for the festival finished, where the documentary had been well received by critic and press; Sasha Makarov travelled from Park City to LA like a tourist, hitching a ride with two complete strangers he had befriended on the resort slopes. He had no wish to stay to party, instead he was going to visit Cassian. A man who lived in semi-seclusion in his mother's pool house. Writing and recording music at home, a routine that guaranteed he did not fall back into bad habits. So, like Alex, who now had been freed from his control issues with his retirement. If life was a choice of being ill and working or being well and retired, it wasn't a choice at all. Happiness and stability were his goals in life and dance was on the back burner. Things may change in time and who knew what the future may bring, at this moment in time Alex was at peace with himself and that was all that really mattered.


	15. Chapter 15

Cassian was nervous, he had no reason to be, as his mum had done all the hard work: arranging the cake, decorations, caterers, waiters, guests and bar. From his vantage point by the white baby grand, he surveyed the room. Paul was sat by the bar on his phone with a glass of water, no ice; probably buying and selling several small countries. Nick looked chic even with the leg brace and crutches; chatting up the three actresses his mother had invited along to make up numbers. Dieter Sprintz had cornered his mother, Edward and Liz Pleasure and was discussing something super-serious in a voice soft enough not to carry. Jamie, Dimitry, Hugo, Joe and Tom were by the corner window watching out for Spy boy. He noted Sabina, Niall and Cyn were appraising at his mother's David Hockney portrait.

The Stravenkov's had sent flowers and an apology as they had a prior engagement, which meant Alex was spending his actual birthday with them. In ten days, the dancer was the last alumni to hit the milestone of the big three-ohh. Funny how only Jamie and himself had made up with their parents. Paul did not speak to his mother and Dima was an orphan, his mother dying when he was 11 in an auto crash. Nick, Joe, Tom and Hugo had stuck their families out until 18 then walked away. Alex had lost his birth family and had gained two foster families.

The first foster family were here tonight. Cassian liked Sabina's sharp wit and acid tongue; a trait obviously honed to distinguish herself from her yummy mummy as Alex had dubbed Liz and stating he had a huge Oedipal complex as a result. Liz was wearing vintage Yves Saint Laurent monochrome pant suit. One his mother adored and the pair had already arranged to go shopping tomorrow, a day for a whole new wardrobe, lunch at Leoni's and no qualms over the expense. The musician knew his mother would pass around Liz's details and the costume designer would be getting offers around tinseltown in no time.

A taxi pulled up the drive. Alex had spent the day at a dance studio downtown working through a few ideas. He had been told Laura-Cate was entertaining some clients tonight, to explain the additional cars in the drive. Cassian's mother had moved seamlesslyy to open the door to her very special guest. "Sasha, you must meet Lia, Jojo and Mikaela. The girls all loved Dave's documentary at Sundance."

The door opened and Cassian started playing to accompany all singing "Happy Birthday" to the shocked almost 30 year old, a smile erupting on his face as he noted his friends and his husband.

…

Good investigative journalism was like a jigsaw puzzle, once you got enough pieces together you could see the whole story. Sasha Makarov's past was a horror story masking a deeper mystery and Alexei Sarov was only the tip of the iceberg.

The small piece written for the Saturday edition of Le Monde discussed the recent injury of the third ranked slalom specialist on the French National Team. Nicholas Marc had a double fracture of his lower leg and was likely to retire. The Russian noted the skier's school friends had visited him in hospital and included James Sprintz, Dimitry Ivanov and Paul Roscoe. Names the journalist knew to be close friends of Sasha Makarov. All from the same class at the exclusive Point Blanc Academy, a school where next to nothing was public knowledge; but the class of 2001, whose alumni appeared to be very close.

With his pad, he started making notes and cross checking past articles on the internet.

The sons of two rich and well connected Russian Generals, who both died that year. Ivanov in February in a motor accident and Sarov by suicide in July. The father of Paul Roscoe also died in that strange lift fall in February. Hints of a blackmail plot involving child pornography surfaced three years ago. The journalist looked up Operation Vico, the arrest of a child pornography ring in London, France, Germany and Russia. That former TV producer Lukov had been a persona non grata to the media since, now working washing cars and living with his mother in Kaliningrad. The leak traced to London, a government archivist at Vauxhall Cross, the guy committed suicide while on remand at Wandsworth. Something else was going on at that school. It was as if the pupils were hand picked for their connections. A billionaire industrialist, a billionaire financier, two supermarket conglomerate founders, two media moguls and three generals, one American and two Russian. Ivanov and Canterbury rumoured to have political ambitions, and the exile, Savov, rich from oil, gas and weapons.

This was a story with possible CIA, FSB and MI6 connections. Sasha Makarov was the key. He had been born in London in 1987. British passport holder suggested his birth mother had been British as well, but that was supposition for now. The dancer had never named his birth mother, sticking to the fact Maria Makarov had been the first mother he recognised.

Sarov had been in England in 1986 regarding nuclear arms reduction treaty. Had he had an affair with a British Agent? The journalist had reliable testimony that the guy was a cold fish. No one could deny the ballet dancer looked like his father and half brother.

Makarov was friends with Paul Roscoe, James Sprintz, Dimitry Ivanov and Cassian James. After 12 years in ballet, he had several close female friends, all former dancing partners, but no close male ones. There were his pseudo-father figures the journalist Edward Pleasure, the dancer Vladimir Stravenkov and that London Gangster. Rumours of links to the Cortez family in Miami.

One ex-lover was a terrorist, one had died of a heart attack, one turned out to be a blackmailer and suspected rapist, one was in prison in Malaysia and his current lover was related to one of his best friends. Had the ballerina's just been beards? Tania in Novosibirsk had wanted marriage and children with Sasha before the blackmail plot. The ballerina stating that had caused their relationship breakdown, not her jumping into bed with her now ex-husband.

Sasha had met Schnagel before Maria. Were they lovers from the start when the young runaway had been 15/16? The pieces in Der Spiegel had painted an abusive relationship, but for a boy groomed and raped by a gangster, would he recognise love? Was his present relationship any different? The journalist pulled up photos of the dancer's current lover, none were full head shots, most were blurry or partially obscured. A search on Niall Cooper came up with articles relating to the dancer from the past two years and nothing prior.

Was Niall Cooper another gangster or something else entirely.

…

Alex sat by Edward's computer and pulled up the video filmed with Cassian in LA. His hair was still dyed the same shade as Cassian's. His hair now distressingly short to reflect the Californian's brutal style, as he had cut off his curls to appear fashionable and edgy. In the video, he had worn a black catsuit covering him from toes to neck, black and grey camouflage make-up on his face and hands and black full contacts. You could hardly tell it was him. Cassian dressed in beautiful designer suit playing keyboards as another dancer mimicked the 'free' shadow of the singer.

The writer watched, happy Alex was working again, even if it was very part time. Alex, still a family friend, their almost but not quite son, who was back on Ludmilla Schmidt's books, accepting guest appearances, solo work and modelling assignments. "So, a photo shoot tomorrow, what changed your mind about retiring? Did you and Cass have a heart to heart?"

Alex was perplexed, as Edward was not a dance fan and the ex-spy knew the man was sweetening the blow with polite conversation. "I sat for Viktor again. He persuaded me to balance my life better. That it's not all or nothing. He's organising a fund raiser for the Arts Centre. I'll be creating a piece for that. Which gets me back on the the ladder. So, you did not ask me here to discuss dancing; what's up, Edward?"

The man sat back on his seat and ran his hand across his face. "I got one copy of Harry Bulmer's files. He made back-ups and another copy has made it into the hands of Max Beckmann, a young and tenacious freelance. He asked me to verify facts about Cray. I immediately connected the dots and told him if he was going to publish to think on that the fact that the child used by MI56 had a new life and deserved his anonymity. He then pulled out the police file from Miami. He's done a brilliant job of covering all angles; he knows you're Alex Rider, that you trained with MI6, worked for the CIA and took out SCORPIA and that you were left out in the cold. He then read my unpublished manuscript. Its going to press without naming you, all pictures involving you are going to be pixelated, but we cannot predict how this will play out."

Alex knew he was wearing a blank expression, which was making his foster father nervous. He relaxed, smiled and shrugged "I've had a good life and I've prepared for the worst case scenario of being outed as an assassin, not an abused kid. Contingencies mean I might have to disappear, but I also have contacts that can make casual threats go away. There is a reason I remained on good terms with those people in Miami, with the FSB. Threaten me or mine and it'll get dirty." Alex then asked "Was this guy open or nasty?"

Edward knew the guy could have published this without the heads up anywhere abroad, considering the timescale it was unlikely to get a D notice served in the UK anyway. "He knew I had the story, but had sat on it for over a decade; he knew I am close to you. He has given me time to warn you. He also wanted to ask, do you want full disclosure now? I said there was next to no chance of that, considering you buried your past so completely at sixteen. No one in New York knew you as Alex Rider, just as Sasha, who later added the Makarov. Did you even tell Manfred your real name?" Edward had often wondered if Alex had purposefully edited his life for who had known him after 2002, cutting out all events between Ian and Jack dying.

"Yeah, we had no secrets, but he never wrote anything in his journal. He understood there were people out to kill me. People that would kill him to get to me. Did you warn this Beckmann that he might be painting a large target on his own back?" Alex had a man to meet to get over that he might make enemies from those the dancer counted as friends.

Beckmann was not a hard man to track down, not to the office address Edward had given him, but to the man's home in Clapham. The rental agreement in his girlfriend's name, a man conscientious enough to separate his private from his work life.

A petite dark haired goth answered the door with a nonchalant "Yeah?"

Alex smiled and said "I'm Alex, I'm here to see Max."

…..

The small living room was dark, but cosy. The original coal fireplace, window shutters and built-in cupboards still in-situ helped make it homey. "Nice place." Alex said honestly.

"Can I get you tea or a coffee?"

"Got any coke?" Alex asked, going back to his teenage favourite.

The young woman put a familiar red can in front of her unexpected guest and sipped her mug of black instant coffee. "Max is in the shower, he'll be about five minutes."

The journalist knew how dangerous the man sat in his front room was, even if Suzi was not impressed. He put a digital recorder in his back pocket and decided against gun, not with an expert marksman in the mix. He had no proof the dancer had killed, but SCORPIA did not train their assassin's to miss. Max was nervous, he had planned this meeting in his office, not here. This was dangerous and the dancer was a loose cannon.


	16. Chapter 16

Edward had to hand it to Beckmann, he wondered how he had managed to acquire the photo of Alex training at Brecon and the other with Herod Style. The fourteen year old's face was pixelated, but Edward had could see the same stance in his own photos from Cornwall and Nice. Would anyone with a connection to Brookland School recognise the teen spy as well? Alex had visited the school since and was quite proud that he, 'Druggie Rider', had actually made something of his life. The staff, teachers and his old classmates, all well aware the former trouble maker was now Sasha Makarov. With his absences, running away in Italy, the burns and broken ankle just before his fifteenth birthday and his short relocation to Cairo all fit with operations described briefly Beckmann and in much more detail in his own book.

The journalist was persona non grata with his daughter, try as he might he had tried to explain to Sabina that publishing his book had always been cards, his publisher had sat on the manuscript for this precise moment, when the story broke. The misuse of Teen 'C' was in the open, no longer a dirty secret. She saw it as betrayal of family secrets. Her hurt nor because Alex had been abused, but more to do with their own failure to help him. Alex had left rather than stay and solve his problems.

Family dirty laundry should be aired. Alex had become a friend of sorts. Any failures and slights long forgiven and forgotten, as they had tried to help. Most had let him sink rather than swim.

Only there was so much more to the story. Edward turned on his laptop and started a new file in a new directory, Dance in the Underworld: the Many Lives of Sasha Makarov. He knew bit about McAlastor and more about Misha and the almost the full story of Manfred, Maria, New York and life in London with Serge and Cyn. Chapter One, Two and Three already to be written - Grief, Failure to Thrive and the Long Way Down. He had already written Miami. God, how he had misunderstood Alex in 2002.

…

Alex took a quick bow and exited to the wings, thankfully the next act was ready to go and the stage manager was more than fine to keep the show moving for a brisk turnaround. He knew he should be stretching and cooling down but he just held his breath. He had never had a problem performing before, but that had been excruciatingly awful. The noise of the audience was enough to make him vomit. He strode to his shared dressing room, quickly wiped off his make up, just pulled his street clothes over his leotard and pushed his ballet shoes into his pocket. All the rest of his stuff was flung in his bag and he left by the stage door. He was thankful the Stravenkov's were in LA and Paul was in Japan. He walked briskly south, going to Lola's small apartment rather than the after show party. He stopped at the bar near her place: Dino's was small, dark and full of traders and a few tourists. He ordered a dirty martini and proceeded to stare at the drink.

The barman laughed and quipped "It ain't poisoned! Grey Goose is good stuff."

Alex picked out the olive, ate it then sneered "My sponsor may have a different outlook on this." The dancer took out his phone and took a photo of the full cocktail glass and posted it on his Instagram and twitter accounts with the tag '15 years since I last went on a serious bender….. so tempted. #lostweekend here we come.' With that he put the glass to his lips.

The barman stayed his hand with a gentle touch. "Don't go there, man. Call your sponsor or better still I'll call mine. Talk, don't give into your demons."

So at nearly 11PM on a Friday night in Lower Manhattan, Sasha Makarov found himself talking to an ex-cop called Sunny by an allnight snack stand, drinking piss poor coffee.

Alex took a sip and regretted it. He put the cup down and went and ordered a coke. "How can you drink that stuff?"

Terrance 'Sunny' Moody could drink anything except the hard stuff, "It qualifies as hot, wet and bitter. Better than the stuff served at the precinct. So, fifteen years sober?"

Alex sighed "Coke.. cocaine, prescription painkillers, amphetimines, upper, downers, anything really, washed down with vodka and tequila. I… I sip wine, the occasional beer no problem. Hard liquor I associated with my bad habits. I started when I was 14. After my … father killed himself in front of me. I was clean at sixteen, but shit I want the oblivion of it at the moment. Just the right mix of opaites and alcohol to not fucking care. Started on strong painkillers and alcohol. It made acting normal at school possible. I…. I should be back in clinic. I have a personality disorder and feeling like this means I need locking in a nice white room. I want everything to stop. Why did I listen to Viktor?" Alex wiped his face, he was in denial land again. Dancing was not the problem. Everything about his past in the open was. Everytime he opened his mouth, said his name, he was confirming his lies. "I'm staying with my friend Lola two blocks over. If we go there, I can brew you a decent cup of joe, 'cause I can't stand here and drink Coke."

The tired club owner arrived home at 2:30, to see Alex talking to a bald, overweight middle aged guy. "Lexie, darling, you are a complete jerk. So, introduce me to your new sponsor."

"Sunny Moody, retired Homicide Detecive and all round guardian angel, meet Lola owner of La Fratina."

"The drag club? You must know Bonehead Garcia."

"NYPD LGBTQ coordinater and a man you should never ask to sing. So, you caught Lexie before he did something monumentally stupid" Lola asked as she note the pot of coffee and poured herself a cup.

"Not me, Bruce the bartender at Dino's called me. I've been sober only ten years, AA saved my life. Just the booze, mind you, not the whole tamale. I've lost friends to drugs. So, I'll leave you to get crewed out by your friend. Good luck in St. Petersburg, just get your support network in place. You'll need it."

"Fifteen texts, five emails and three phone calls from your friends and family over that post. Now, call your man, Viktor, Ludmilla, Vladimir and Paul. Then we can go out for an early breakfast. We need a long talk. If you'd come to the club no one would be hassling me, sugar."

…..

Captain James Sanchez hated excessive heat, dust and deserts. He preferred cold, wet and dank Wales. He wanted a long soak in a bath full of Matey bubbles and a large glass of Navarra to quaff while he relaxed. All he had to look forward to was substandard basic rations, warm water to drink, not warm enough tea brewed to the point of true wood stain strength, and a small dirty, dark and very dingy barrack room with hot and cold running vermin. Here he was back in Libya, escorting MI6 assisting the fight against extremist Islamic Terrorists. His contact was Fox: older, scarier and world weary. His old friend had brought several bottles of decent Scotch in his personal luggage.

Fox pulled out two newspapers with a terse "Read all about it, Wolfie. We have been outed as child abusing arseholes. I wonder who talked. I know it wasn't Cub, considering he's Sergeant Cooper's missus now. My money's on Smither's."

The SAS team leader read all about the hazing of the blackmailed fourteen year old Cub. He had been a right tosser back then. Like getting binned mattered in the long run. He had grown up a lot, helped along by that kid. "Really Bernie's got questionable taste. Cub's got a really dark sense of humour."

Fox chuckled "Tell me about it. I killed his godfather in Oz and all he said was that the cunt deserved it." Out came the contraband bottle of Johnnie Walker Black and two very generous measures were poured into Mickey Mouse paper cups.

Wolf took the offered party cup filled with fire water and then asked the inevitable "So, who's this Smither's then?'

…

The Kirov had a programme of modern and contemporary ballet pieces. Alex was dancing twice. One his own choreography and the first on stage with a solo by Marek Veshin, pared back to the man's original notes, not the accepted softened classical lines of the work that premiered in 1931. This was the visionary work influenced by both Martha Graham and the stoicism of the Russian brutality. Hope of the revolution then tempered by the reality of the first five year plan, individuality lost to the collective told through movement. A work that found favour with the great Kirov himself. After classs Alex wandered down Nevsky Avenue to Malaya Sadovaya Street listening to his iPod on shuffle, music shifted from musical favourites of Jack, Maria, Manfred and Serge. Classical, Rock, Rap, Jazz. What did he like himself? Was e an empty vessel who only lived through others?

The melancholy call for home in Coldplays clocks and he was dancing, paying no mind to tourists, shoppers or those videoing him. He wanted home and this wasn't home. Pirouetting with ease, dance was home. The music then changed to Aaron Copland, the sharp cracks of Rodeo. He stopped and laughed, bowing to those watching and clapping for his impromptu performance. He started the famous pirouette from the Corsaire to the whistles and cheers of the growing crowd and then muttered "I just feel like dancing today, but I have no one to dance with. I must go amuse myself with coffee. Thank you for your kindness." Selfies were taken, several autographs signed; her in Russia Dancers were referred and idolised like nowhere else.

In the Coffee House, Alex ordered viennese coffee, with orange juice and two almond croissants. He had already picked up a copy of the Times, reading about the fall out over Beckmann's expose. The former Secretary of Defence and former Prime Minister had issued statements both damning Alan Blunt as the abuser at fault. Emails proved they had both insisted the use of their underage agent seise immediately, before Point Blanc. Calls were for Blunts arrest. More so, since the byline suggested the child in question must be dead as he had not come forward. Like Alex would join the media circus. He was staying well away from Parliamentary sub committees and legal enquiries. They could have come clean in 2002 when Blunt retired in disgrace without his expected knighthood; but he had been sent abroad and forgotten about.


	17. Chapter 17

Tom Harris was in Waitrose, having a coffee considering his weekly shop, when the creep from the Mail approached him with a sycophantic tone, "Tom, for the public record; can you confirm that Sasha has left his abusive/controlling husband".

He had was a bit sidetracked, trying to think who Sasha was and looked completely puzzled and automatically said "Who? Don't know who you're on about, mate."

"Sasha Makarov, your best friend, he used to be called, Alex Rider."

The electrician drained his cup of coffee and suppressed the overwhelming urge to punch this odious creeps lights out. He had worked for Cooper, seen Alex and his boo together. Only a blind emotionally crippled arse would not see the pair were perfect together and totally loved up. If anyone deserved happiness it was Al. "True, I was the only friend of Druggie Rider at school, but he disappeared in 2002. I don't know Sasha well now at all, considering everything. The fragment of Sasha I knew as my friend, died when he was 15. You want to know about Sasha talk to his real friends, that Paul McAlastor or even better Paul Roscoe. If those guys talk to you, I might consider giving you a quote. Otherwise, fuck off cunt." It had hurt to realise the Alex, who had been his best friend at school, had been a construct of lies and just a mask. Alex never trusted him enough to tell him about his abusive uncle or the fact he wanted, like soul deep wanted, to be a dancer or that he was gay. He just got the script Ian had drilled into his eleven year old nephew as acceptably normal.

The journalist shrugged and switched off his recorder, he put his card on the table. "Call me if you change your mind." The guy did not offer money, he had already guessed doing so would end with him in hospital and Harris arrested for assault. The guy had mentioned a mob fixer and a billionaire by name, which meant no charges would stick anyway.

…..

In the seclusion of his van, Tom started ringing around. The Brookland alumni had spread far and wide, with only a handful still living in London. They still met up occasionally. Becks and Hollie, then Colin and Jules, he phoned them to get the word out to cold shoulder any arse from the press asking about Rider. He drove to Soho and parked in the few spaces available behind the Phoenix Club. Tom had gotten quite a bit of work from McAlaster in the last few years, a steady stream of work that had helped the electrician set up on his own in fact. The club owner was rough and ready, but if you were straight with him, you had nothing to fear.

Mikey showed the unexpected guest through to the bar. Paul was sat with a G&T reading the Standard. "So, Mr. Harris, what's up?"

It was unnerving that a man in charge here never forgot a name or a face, Tom coughed nervously and then squealed the journo out "This Damien Forster has been bad mouthing Cooper and Sasha. I told him to talk to you, considering you and Sasha are best buds. I'm just a ghost from the past."

The club owner sat and pondered that statement and its basic flaw. "Sasha would move mountains to protect you, Mr. Harris. He considers you a true friend. I appreciate good friends, few and far between that they are. So, about work; how's your German?"

Thinking on his feet, the electrician quipped "Vorsprung Durch Technik."

Paul chuckled "Good to know your linguistic skills match mine. I just bought a share of a club in Berlin. It needs updating. A week there, you could let me know what needs replacing and bringing up to code without me needing a dictionary to decipher the jargon. All expenses paid. You can catch up with Sasha and the Sergeant as well. The pair are settling down there. Hiding in plain sight, so to speak."

….

"So, Master of Ceremonies at your own BDSM club? This is a bit of a departure from running a coffee shop or doing up houses." Cyn queried as she put a plate of digestives in front of her uncle.

The ex-soldier was making a pot of tea, leaving it to steep, he turned and tried to explain to his niece that he to was casting off constructs and masks just like Sasha. "I.. I've been hiding so long. Being out and proud was not me, as you know. I was very in the closet as a sad loner. You were the first person to join the dots and realise I'm not Mr. straight and normal."

The dancer bit into a biscuit and shook her head. "Thank, Christ for that. My dad is that and he's a fucking tosser of the highest order. Don't get me started on mum's faults. I might be straight, but me and my man are not vanilla. I am mistress in the bedroom. How does Sasha view you coming out, like out out? This is like screaming to all that you are in a very open relationship."

"No, no, not like that. I'm opening a club, but not to partake myself. Me and Sasha, we are a team, he's mine and I'm his. Marriage means inclusivity in every sense. No other can take his place in my heart; and the absences, while he works, just makes our time together more intense. We will still be together over 60 percent of the time. He needs me, needs centring, he's finally happy with himself. I'm happy with myself. Fuck it duckling, its taken me a hell of a lot longer to be true to myself than it took Sasha to sort himself out. I'm nearly fifty-four. Only now can I be open with everyone that this is the real me." He inspected the contents of the cupboard for the right sort of cup. Tea needed to be served in porcelain not earthenware. To think he's spent most of his adult like drinking out of enamelled mugs or metal tins.

Finding vessels that fit the criteria he poured out two cups and added a splash of milk for a decent cup of cha. Handing the second cup to his niece he knew it was time to come clean about his past. "I never told you, you were just a baby at the time and me and Derek were never close and did not speak of several years; but I worked in Russia for a while. I was a deep cover agent. It went spectacularly bad. People died. I was left on my own, no back up and with a bullet awaiting me if I got caught. When I was on the run, I worked at a club in Moscow. I was a working boy, like Sasha I fell a long way down. That's why the FSB could not find me. I dropped off the grid and there with the masters, subs, whores and rent boys, I found something I needed. I got enough money saved, met a trafficker and made it out to Istanbul, via working in clubs in Odessa and Tbilisi. I… I quit working for spook central and went back to the Army. I loved training grunts, but it was me hiding my past completely. Not healthy, but being a soldier meant I could fix my relationship with your dad and got to spoil you rotten. Derek would never have let me within a million miles of you if he's suspected I was bent. Reason enough for me sitting in a closet. Not the job, but for you, sugarpie."

"You were a spy?" In all her life, Cindy Cooper had never expected that.

"So was Sasha. He was 'C'. That's when I first met him. Special Forces Training. Its hard to explain, because were were both hiding our true selves so deeply, so effectively. I was not real then; neither was he."

….

Beckmann was putting the final touches to his second expose on the Teen Spy. He in need of a caffeine fix, but was out of coffee and Suzi was at work. At nearly ten at night, he pulled on his coat to go to the Sainsbury's around the corner to see what was on the shelves. Almost immediately he knew he was being tailed. A sleek BMW 5 series stopped in front of him as he attempted to cut across to the tube station.

"Mr. Beckmann, my name is Ivanov. Yes, the same Ivanov that attended Point Blanc. I'm here with a warning from my friends."

The journalist knew the only son of General Ivanov was a career spook with the FSB, only he was stationed in New York, not London. "Sure, threaten away."

Dimitry smiled "We are not barbarians, I fear you do not know the whole story, you do not have all the pieces and my government will be forced to act if you inadvertently expose certain events. Please, we cannot talk now in the open, but, please come for breakfast at my hotel tomorrow. The Dorchester. If you do not want to deal. That is OK, just think on the fact my superiors wanted to be polite about this."

….

Alex watched the stylist pull out clothes, she hesitated and then asked "Are they too masculine for you? Its just, the editor is very conservative."

"When I last sat for the Guardian, I had a beard. I dressed in costume for the Mayerling and had clothes set out for me by Liz Pleasure. She understood classic English style. I wore beautifully tailored suits. I own several hand made creations, English, Italian, French and American designers. These days male clothes are all gender fluid as girls can wear them without censure. My personal style, I wear female tops, scarves, accessories, trousers; but not skirts or dresses. I soften the lines, but I am male." Alex looked through the clothes, disliking the current favourites in Moscow for casual to the point of chavvie. His hand touched the few items of army surplus and the Dior brocade jackets. "How about military chic." He went over to his bag and pulled out his medals. "These may help inspire you and please your very conservative editor."

The photographer had set up his studio for a brief set, just a spread of shots of that effeminate American dancer. In stepped, a military man. The bearing of inner steel, the cold ruthless emotionless face, hair shorter than the photographer expected as his model waited for instructions. From just a job, this man was an enigma. Grishka Petrov took his camera off his tripod and called to his assistant "Nika, outside shoot. Here's fine. Industrial bleakess. Bring the bag of reflectors. You did your own make up, I take it, Mr. Makarov?"

"Yes, but call me Sasha."

Gregory had not expected the deep tones or the Siberian accent. The shock must have showed on his face as the dancer briefly smiled.

"Yeah, I know. People expect an American accent or Moscow." He spoke like Sarov, by accident rather than design. Originally he had spoken Russian with a mix of Smolensk, Moscow and American inflections. "In Novosibirsk, I was kind of broke. I initially had lodgings at the municipal workers residence No. 2, 150 roubles a night. The place was a barrack with some single rooms, shared bathrooms and kitchens. Basic, but it was clean and dry. I knew no one at the ballet company and no one asked where I was staying. They all assumed at some five star tourist hotel. I liked the guys there, open, honest, no bullshit, a bit of friendly hazing. Guys were all kind and understood that dancing was worse paid than even menial work on the rigs. I was tempted to do shifts and be able to afford a better place, but I stuck it out. Played poker and ate with real Siberians. In two months of rehearsals and my early performances I picked up the accent and colloquialisms. It was Titania that noticed it and asked if my father had been a Siberian. I said one of them had. I went through a few placements as a teenager. The Siberian Paratrooper was possibly the worst of them all."

Alex went through the motions, glad that tomorrow he was seeing Niall. The selected portraits had the photographer gushing about the chameleonn qualities of the dancer. Gregory then asked "I do artistic work, personal projects, not bullshit magazine work. I hope for a future exhibition. Can you sit for me."

"Can you come to Berlin?" Alex asked, tired and weary, wanting to go home.

"Err yeah, sure."


	18. Chapter 18

Alex thoroughly hated travelling and airports in particular, as a very frequent traveller he hated waiting at checkin, security, customs, baggage reclaim and passport control in equal measure. Today, there would be a fast track through at his destination, all due to his long term liaison with the Bolshoi, if he was lying to himself. The truth was he was a known FSB asset. As the S7 plane circled Domodedovo, the Dancer felt grim as he was was currently sporting several lurid bruises on his body, hidden under his clothes, along with the more visible left black eye and tender jaw. Two paracetamol were not making a dent in his headache. His to do list included a brush up on self defence, after the mugger caught him unawares while jogging early yesterday morning.

The petty thief mistaking him for an easy mark, after the expensive watch and iPhone combo. Both items grabbed in a flash of pain after the jogger was beaten to the ground. Alex's bruises were nothing to the state of the assailant. Bones had been broken and teeth lost when Alex ran after him and got his stuff back. Niall had insisted on a hospital check up which had put Alex in his current pissy mood, as he had not answered the stupid questions of the medical staff, after the nurse and two doctors had not believed his 'just been mugged' explanation. Even a black belt in karate with special forces training could be caught out, if totally absorbed listening to the new Lorde track running beside the Landwehr canal. He was so annoyed with himself for his complacency. Past muggers in London, LA and New York had not landed a hit. Maybe it was old age, not that he felt old. Thirty was no different from twenty-five. In fact, he was in better physical and mental shape, far more relaxed and thriving at home and work.

He was in Moscow to teach, having gained a professional teaching accreditation. His long term goal of paperwork to back his skills had taken nearly two years to get including his Diploma in Dance Teaching and Learning and TESOL as a backup.

For six weeks, Alex was teaching two courses at the Bolshoi Dance Academy. Alex finally felt like he was finally joining the ranks as a professional now. Never mind the fact, he'd run his own dance company, choreographed works and been both guest and principal artist at company's across the globe. Teaching Pyotr and working with Maria had been fulfilling in a way performing ultimately had not been. Alex had been driven to dance, but lacked the egotistical streak needed as a true ballet superstar. Not that he was looking for a permanent teaching position nor considering starting his own studio. If his course on contemporary and modern influences in Russian Ballet was anything near up to par, word would get around as dancers were gossips by nature. He could teach history or choreography: modern, contemporary and classical. His eidetic memory was a real bonus, when he could remember every lesson and anecdote of Manfred, Vladimir and Maria.

Finally, he stood in his rented apartment, tastefully minimalist and thankfully lived up to its listing. The fact was the apartment was paid for by three modelling jobs, not his meagre wage as a teacher. He made green tea, from the few bags in his overnight bag, and pondered going to class before shopping for essentials. Long ago he had learned to live and travel with minimal belongings. He needed a good stretch. Class would be an icebreaker with his students. He'd texted his boo already. The club kept Niall busy even on weekdays and he would not be surprised if the Master of Ceremonies did not reply until the early hours.

…

His first staff meeting at 8AM and his first class had him covering for an ill colleague teaching English to the final year students. No one mentioned his bruises, Alex just thought his new colleagues were being polite, the meeting broke up and Alia walked with him. In the small classroom, she closed the door and then began her inquisition. "You like dangerous games with your lover. I thought it was about exploring boundaries, not brutality?"

"Niall did not do this. I was mugged jogging. The toe rag got several good hits in, but he was in much worse shape when I finished with him. More fool me for running listening to my music at full volume. Its not the first time I've been a target. The creep was after my iPhone 7 and my platinum Swiss watch. I will exercise in future without my bling." Alex could kick himself over his basic mistakes on situational awareness. Something the ex-sergeant had not grilled him over.

"Poor lost soul. You were a thief once." Alia stated.

Alex shrugged "I got beaten a few times for my sins as well. You take the rough with the smooth. I'm sparing with Dimitri this afternoon. He had a real laugh when I described my ordeal. No sympathy at all. Want to join me getting laughed at by a bunch of spooks?"

"No thank you, Sasha; but you must invite me out if you have dinner with your handsome friend."

…

Sabina Pleasure lit a Marlboro Light and inhaled the acrid smoke to calm her fraying nerves as she sat in the branch of Shokoladnitsa, after arriving insanely early. Finding it hard to believe fifteen years had passed since she had last seen Alex in the flesh. Over the past five years they had communicated infrequently by text and email, the only common ground now was Edward and Liz. Each communique distant and impersonal for the former best of friends. Her parents did not treat Alex like their prodigal son, more like a reacquainted good friend, glossing over the failed fostering. The dancer insisted his life with them had been doomed from the start due to his inherent issues and problems caused by MI6; rather than any fault on their part. Her friend's fall from grace had effected her deeply, despite her father's attempts to shelter her from the awful truth. She shuddered at the truth, it had been second nature for Alex at fourteen to hide everything, had only given her hints in the hope she would realise everything about his life was wrong, not just the tragedy of the evens at Wimbledon, Cray, Scotland and then Cairo. Reality much worst than the confessions from Alex himself at the time; who had tried to protect her and himself from those bastards who abused him. She had read the news articles about Child 'C' abused my MI6 and her father's much more candid notes. The unpublished facts were truly horrific. All happening while Alex clung on to the lifeline that had been his friendship with Tom and herself.

She stubbed out her but and felt lighting up another immediately. This meeting bringing her life choices into sharp relief. Feeling like a failure, but that was nothing new; at thirty one she was still single and stuck in a job that frankly sucked. She truly hated dating and her one long lasting relationship had gone south three years ago after less than a year with David's damning parting words of 'its not you, its me', when he had married his ex Chrissy barely four months later. She now had a bland job as Output Editor at RT, which was creative censorship rather than journalism. Not the position she expected to have ten years after her first at Oxford.

She noted the sudden silence as Alex entered the cafe, as the former ballet dancer had been recognised by the staff and customers. Not surprising as he had been on the Arts Programme last night on Channel One, talking about the change of emphasis from performing to teaching. Only three performances scheduled this summer and a handful of further dates later in the year. A fact that had made the news on all TV channels this morning and the Arts headlines in all the Daily papers as well as more lurid stories in the gossip mags. He looked fit and well, with short blond hair, slight stubble and tasteful classic oxfords, jeans and striped shirt combo. Definitely going for the more English classic than preppie style.

He'd seen the plethora of photos produced by both Edward and Liz, images of Sabina growing up. She was as beautiful now as she had been at 16. Tall, willowy with long dark hair and pale skin. He was still that teenager with his hopeless crush. Watching as the object of his affections fit in perfectly at High School. Here was a woman who deserved growing up safe and unmarred by the pain, hurt and chaos of his own existence. It had taken a ton of patience and tough love from Maria, Vladimir, Luci, Manfred and Niall to get Alex to realise he too deserved family, stability and the safe haven of home. He observed the half drunk latte glass in front of the smoking woman and he went to the counter to order drinks and cakes for this long overdue reunion, as he was peckish after his head shrinking session.

Sabina listened in on the banter as Alex flirted with the girl serving on the counter, then the subsequent selfie and the autograph for the manageress. He then came over with a tray laden with goodies. A tart lemon cake for himself and a caramel chocolate confection for her along side two coffees.

...

Alex had pause for reflection as he unloaded the beverages and cakes. This was awkward, as he was unsure wether a kiss/hug with his foster sister was appropriate or be oh so very English and offer his hand and remain cooly standoffish.

He settled for casual, like they had never been estranged, "Hey, it was a real surprise hearing you're living in Moscow. Surreal considering last time we met neither of us spoke any Russian."

Sabina smiled, stood and pulled her much missed former partner in crime into a hug. "Oh Alex. I have missed you so much. From what dad and mum said about you, I got the feeling I never knew you at all."

Alex knew that was a misnomer, the walls erected to protect himself from Ian had started to be disassembled around Sabina and her family. They had no connection to his past, so they had seen something akin to the boy before his uncle had beaten into submission in 1998. He should have been braver at fifteen, in many ways running, falling the long way down, had been easier than the long slog of healing had been over the last three years. The big question was If he had accepted psychiatric help in San Francisco he might never have followed his dream of returning to dance. An avenue explored in small part to Misha, but mostly his real saviours: Manfred and Maria. The harder road was a choice he did not regret in the slightest looking back, he had found himself along the way.

With the rift, forgotten by open acceptance in her open arms. Alex knew this friend's intuition had always been spot on. "You always saw the real me, that's why you found it so hard to believe any of the spy stuff. If I'd confided in you at Wimbledon about wanting to dance after Ian denying me a place at Richmond, that would have been the real Alex. It just took me morphing into Sasha to get back who I really am. You always knew the Alex involved with MI6, Cray and McCain was all bullshit."

Sabina pulled away to sit, dabbing the few stray tears with the back of her hand. Actions mirrored by her one time foster brother. A man who seemed so comfortable with emotions, so different from the cold emotionless boy who disappeared in 2002. "So, tell me about this separation from your beau? Just work or are you and the Sergeant taking a break."

After a sip of hot coffee, Alex dispelled the salacious rumours of running from an abusive relationship. "He'd be here if he could get a visa. The gossip mill is all bullshit. The tabloids here just had a field day over a few bruises. I got mugged two weeks ago, bastard junkie gave me a mild concussion and nearly got away with my phone and watch. I beat the shithead up for his presumption thinking I was soft mark. Even Alia though Niall had done the dirty on me. He's more likely to mother me to death. I quite like a bit of solitude when we're apart. Makes me appreciate him more." Alex settled back to drink his coffee while it was still piping hot." Alex knew from Liz that Sabina was single and getting jaded from dating. "So, no guy measures up to your very exacting standards?"

A very not amused expression marred Sabina's pretty face,"I'm not that bad!"

"Darling, I scored a mere six out of ten before I turned into the scarred freak and had two trips to the plastic surgeon to sort myself half way to handsome. You always wanted perfection, dare I suggest you settle for money or a long term admirer. Considering Niall pined after me for nearly a decade. Is there no one in your office sweet for you?"

"Keep those letchs at arms length. It's after Nick, I just think all guys are two timing liars and so far I've been proved right. So, I take it you and Niall are mutually inclusive?"

"Not so much, considering I have a terrible habit of falling for my dance partners. I have not been stupid and mixed work with pleasure since Tania. Flirt, spoil and fall completely in love, just no exchanging of bodily fluids or attempts at anything beyond the perfection of the performance."

"Bi or pan sexual? You seem very non binary in interviews, so just no gender boundaries. I wish I was not so into sleaze bags myself. I just fall for absolute gits. Single is not so bad. In four or five years I'll visit a sperm bank to satisfy my already ticking biological clock." Sabina ate her cake before broaching the real reason she'd reconnected. "I heard Mikhail Schnikov has connected the MI6 teen spy with dad and that incident on Murmansk Sasha Makarov is about to be outed as Agent 'C' and your friends in high places can't bury it. They seem to think the Russian is your real dad for some reason."

"Parts of the truth have been out for years. Nothing will change, considering. I have good reasons to refuse to talk about Murmansk or any of the other FUBARS MI6 involved me in. I can see no point in running or hiding. It won't affect my very minimal career prospects." Alex was glad that Sabina gripped his hand in reassurance.

"Dancing with Olga Grezkova, this month in Moscow and London. I also heard you can command over a hundred grand a performance."

"Not quite, that's what Olga charges. She insisted on dancing with me, she's the star. In February, she came to Berlin to beg me out of retirement. All dates over the next year are because of her. She's brilliant and quite scary. I'm positive she and Grennady have a game plan to keep me in the game. I planned to fade into obscurity as an insignificant footnote in ballet history. Its not like I'm driven anymore." Alex sat back and wondered on the balancing act of health and happiness over any ambition. Without manoeuvring in the background from friends ands colleagues he would have faded into the background like Genevieve. He could see himself making guest appearances over the next four or five years. He doubted he'd dance much beyond the age of thirty five. The teen spy story had already passed its zenith. If he remained aloof of the allegations of a second rate cable news programme, most would remember him for dancing not his misspent youth.


	19. Chapter 19

At fourteen Dimitry Ivanov had cast off all childish notions of fair play or idealism; as a consequence of his forced exile, imprisonment and his father's murder after the fake son returned from that French school. Jaded by the fact, he been rescued by a fellow teenager blackmailed into black ops by the British, not Russian State Security. Alex had been there because of the suspicious death of an American billionaire, no one in Russia had questioned the accident killing his own father until after his return from Grenoble. Since then, he had few friends, those who had gained his trust he would move mountains for. He was also a paranoid bastard and had no qualms ordering surveillance on his good friend Sasha Makarov. He read the transcript of the conversation between Sabina Pleasure and her one time foster brother. He had immediately ordered a full search on the reporter outed with the scoop on Agent C. Any classified information held would see the man convicted as a traitor with a guaranteed fifteen to twenty year sentence in Siberia with no chance of parole. Dima was a diligent intelligence officer, this lead would possibly link back to bribes and leaks within the FSB. The main priority was to keep a lid on all details of Alexei Sarov's bomb plot. The reporter in London had acquiesced and accepted that censorship of certain details of those events was preferable to a potential unfortunate accident.

This evening, he had brought a decent bottle of vintage champagne and a box of cigars for this dinner party. Dima would enjoy the company of Alex's friends, even if his friend cooked his infamous game stew. He for one had no desire to eat either cat or rat.

Fourteen sat down for the simple meal. All spoke Russian, even Edward Pleasures's daughter. He pondered her quick wit and obvious intelligence. Was she too a spy? After coffee, the FSB agent moved to the window and looked down at the street view, his own driver/bodyguard sat in his BMW coupe. Life had been simpler as a junior officer, now he was perceived as a player in internal security and therefore a threat. He was soon joined window gazing by Sabina.

The dark haired woman sipped her glass of champagne and then quipped "they're all gossiping about the new technical director at the Bolshoi and Olga's psycho ex. The man is livid she's gone freelance and is dancing here with the mad American. Alex is just so relaxed about everything. I can't decide if its a side effect of his medication or just the fact he lives day by day; only discussing any worries or hiccups with his therapist and the big bad sergeant in Berlin."

The creepy stalker-ex had been foolish enough to try and threaten Sasha and did not like the fact the mad American had smiled and never considered the mentally ill man would up the ante. With a whispered interchange not heard on the surveillance tape, Alex showed that idiot how to threaten someone properly, that you need to have true conviction over either bodily harm or impending mortality. Not an idle threat from a man who had tortured, maimed and killed. The FSB Major agreed with Sabina with a slight nod of his head "He is relaxed, happy and managing well at the moment. Even his friends at the Bolshoi are aware that the Agent C story is about him. No more secrets, nothing to hide."

"You do know this is Alex's attempt at matchmaking. Though I doubt you want a journalist as a girlfriend."

"I'm sure our little matchmaker has told you I do not date anyway. Sex with no emotional entanglements is my normal."

Sabina smiled slyly, "my preferred scenario also. Keep it to sex and you don't get disappointed."

.,,,

A large, coffee was placed in front of the major, who continued to work despite its divine aroma. His team knew not to disturb him when report writing without a very good reason.

The visitor sat down and spoke English with a London accent, no pretence at being American here in the Lubiyanka. "it's time for a chat Dima. Stop that pen pushing and drink your Columbian blend. Fresh from my friends in Miami." Alex finished his own cup and watched his friend continue to ignore him. Switching to Russian Alex spoke loud enough for all in this office to hear. "You fucked my sister. You were meant to take her on a date, not a one night stand." Alex placed two tickets on the desk. "Excellent seats for the Ballet, some insane American is performing with that Diva Olga Grezkova. If you believe the tabloids, she had totally bewitched him straight. I'll buy Sab a new dress and shoes, we can all have a late supper afterwards."

Dima put down his pen, his train of thought for this draft report long lost. "So, have you fallen for Olga? You bet me you'd be hopelessly besotted by the dress rehearsal."

"She's totally amazing. Sorry to disturb you, now off to hang with Uncle Andrei."

"Have fun, Aleksandr Alexeiyvich."

"You too, Napoleon" Alex quipped back.

...

Life had taught Alex to live in the present. He had dealt with the traumas of the past and he did not worry about the future beyond the few dates in his diary for performing and rehearsals. After fourteen years hard slog, He was a moderately famous dancer, who did not pursue fame or fortune. The ex operative never expected his skills learnt from Ian, the SAS or SCORPIA ever to be needed again. Only after the failed mugging had he brushed up his situational awareness and hand to hand combat training. His guns and throwing knives were in the lock up in London. With the story breaking over his earlier incarnation as Alex Rider, Sasha Makarov was once again balancing the calm and seclusion of home in Berlin with the hectic weeks of travel, rehearsals, publicity, interviews and shows. His partnership with Olga including a full tour of Europe and the US. He would be in New York in three months time, catching up with friends and family.

...

Three months ago, Sabina Pleasure had quit her job, using her small inheritance from her grandmother to travel rather than her planned deposit for a house. Helped by detailed hints from Sergei Ivanov, she had met the mysterious Misha, whom had stolen her foster brother away from San Fransisco; been treated like family by the mob in Florida and London and talked to critics, dancers, choreographers and directors from Siberia to Sydney. Now she had a finished manuscript and over two dozen photos of her chameleon like friend from 2002 to 2017. Her biography titled "Sasha Makarov: Victim, Survivor, Reluctant Star'. The term star was wrong, but Alex was a ballet star, by accident rather than design. Her premise was to follow his journey from lost to happy, well and loved. She would not seek publication until Alex himself approved her work.

It was another four hours to New York, so Sabina listened over her various interviews. Any mention of Alex the spy, had not made it into the text; though her favourite interviewee had been Paul Roscoe, from his R-rated retelling of Alex gatecrashing his 18th birthday party at Rainbow Room to picking up the pieces from the 2015 breakdown. The book was not really about dance, but the journey of a lost, broken and alienated teenager healing and accepting the past and present reincarnations, all the broken bits in the mix from used and abused teenager, stripper, escort, dancer, friend and lover, were part of the same person. The young writer had herself had found herself liking those she had originally thought of as villains as both Misha and the Diva Titania had both been charming and open about loving Alex enough to let him go, when realising their selfish needs were harming the gentle soul they loved. Sabina had been self absorbed at sixteen; when her parents that had taken the hard choice of agreeing for Alex to be forced into rehab and military school.

….

It was a strange concept, as Alex thought this enterprise would not make Sabina much money as who the hell would be interested reading about his life. Her foster brother had to hand it to her, she had done a brilliant job piecing together the last fifteen years into a meaningful and insightful narrative. He was not best seller material, as he only well known in the sheltered world of dance. He might be paid 25 grand per performance, but Olga got twice that. To think, with two advertising contracts, he was finally rich. Money he had invested and saved for his imminent retirement as his left leg ached with every performance. Stress fractures likely in an ankle and lower leg held together by titanium rods and screws. He'd be lucky to finish his next two seasons of bookings without another visit to an orthopaedic surgeon.

He had been given two copies of Sabina's manuscript, one in English and one in Russian, as she had assumed publication in Moscow was more likeky. Olga was reading the book as well. The revelations within had changed their relationship from strictly cordial andcprofessional to her acting as another bossy big sister, arguing his corner not only her own. His only criticism of the text was the rather harsh portrayal of Maria, his adopted mother had been a cold hearted bitch, slave driver and control freak; but she had been the first to give him guidelines to recovery through work. That had been how she had survived her brutally awful childhood and clawed her way to be a Prima Ballerina.

Tonight he was dancing at the Met in New York, thirteen years after he failed an audition for the Corps de Ballet at the American Ballet Theatre. A programme of Russian classic and a few contemporary pieces, including two he had choreographed specifically for Olga. Feeling like and old man he wrapped warm towels around his aching joints.

…

Sabina stood back at the post performance party thrown by an exuberant billionaire. Her eyes strayed from Paul Roscoe to Vladimir and Luci Stravenkov, Alex's parents in all but name. She was disturbed from her voyeurism by her lover, Dima. The pair of them were a good match. Neither wanted a legal partnership, cohabitation or any pretence of normal. She wondered if he would be a good father, but her biological clock had a few years to wait for that shift.


	20. Chapter 20

Alex pondered his 31st birthday and how life could get any worst; as the shuffle play on his iPod cycled to the Manic Street Preachers and the lyrics to By the Grace of God seemed so apt to his current situation; alone and in pain in a hospital bed. Life reflecting his fifteenth birthday, after the debacle of Kenya. Here he was, separated from the man who had promised to cherish him always. Failure of his marriage was his decision to walk away from a stranger, rather than endure the awful loneliness anymore. Swapping being ignored to life on his own once more.

He shifted and hissed in discomfort. Pain was inevitable with the mess his leg was in, even immobilised in plaster to above his knee. He had a serious lower leg fracture, with surgery due in less than an hour, with titanium rods planned to hold everything together and the doctor stating further surgery to remove said metalwork needed, once the bones were healed. He was of the opinion he needed a lot more morphine or better still ketamine to dull the incessant deep throbbing, not that he was going to get those heavy hitters prescribed with his self medicating history.

He switched off his music as the songs were not distracting him in the slightest. This was his first major injury and it was likely to be a career ending one. He had always known he was putting immense strain on his legs as he was very tall for a dancer at 3cm taller than all the other principals in Sydney. He had noted how hard he had to work to maintain the level of fitness and flexibility needed as a guest principal. Life without dance, was a bleaker prospect than life without his Sergeant. Love was not enough to keep that relationship alive, not when Niall had achieved his dream and working the club was more of a draw than the man he professed to love.

With practiced ease he completed several rounds of breathing exercises. He may get visitors tonight, but probably not. Olga was on stage, the Stravenkov clan were in the Hampton's and Paul was off somewhere making money. Lola had already sent flowers stating she'd see him tomorrow. He might even be back in his apartment tomorrow, a beautiful penthouse, opposite Paul's place in Midtown. He would order pizza and sushi, and try to enjoy this moment of calm as he recuperated.

….

The whole deal of a long standing serious relationship was a first for Bernard Niall Cooper. It had been perfection in London, when he and Alex had worked and lived together. Things had slowly changed when they had moved to Berlin, when the focus of his time and attention had been to run his club, which was his lifelong dream. Work had consumed him and along the way he had spent less and less time with his husband. He had not noticed his partners dancing engagements going from occasional guest performances to the full-time international touring, with any short off work periods spent in New York or London, avoiding Berlin. The last time Alex had been here, had been just before Christmas, when he had talked only of the club and before the weary traveller had unpacked or had a cup of tea, had asked for money, a large amount of money, to be invested for much needed structural maintenance and remodelling to keep in line with regulations. He barely remembered what he said and how that had been misinterpreted into the full blown argument that erupted. Alex had then shut up mid sentence and picked up his case and walked out the door. Three days later sixty thousand Euros had appeared, delivered by one Paul's underlings, with a pile of legal forms requiring his signature. He had not read them, as he assumed Alex had sold his share of the club to liquidate funds. He had felt only slightly guilty that his husband had gone to his very rich school friend, but within minutes of that interruption, he had once again been consumed by the minutia of work.

A very official document arrived today, by courier at the club. He opened the brown envelope with a sense of trepidation to see the legal notice. He read the document and blood drained from his face in shock. His beloved had applied for and been granted a divorce with grounds of his unreasonable behaviour. In his hand was the decree nisi. Listed were the complaints that he had only texted, talked to or emailed his husband to demand money in the last year. For Alex's last four visits to Berlin, they had not actually cohabited. When he came home to sleep, Alex had been at class or the gym. He had forgotten his husband's last two birthdays, their last anniversary and had worked over Christmas and New Year two years running, not even taking time to go to see Alex's family at any point for two years. The soon to be ex-husband then realised he had no idea where Alex was living or working. The documents only gave the solicitor's details as point of contact. He went through his desk and pulled out the documents he had signed in December, which included the divorce petition and a financial settlement. By accident rather than design, he had fucked this up. During the argument Alex had stated he had no more liquid assets to put into the club, as he was investing all earnings for the future and trying to save to buy a place somewhere warm, a joint holiday home. Something they had planned as they were both fully committed to their careers and that Alex had two to five years tops before retirement. His need for cash had made him argue that such a modest dream for joint holidays to unwind together seem like pure selfishness on Alex's part.

His pride and joy was moderately successful with a decent crowd of regulars. All that work on his part had been funded with Alex's money and earnings. The proprietor could bet his niece Cyn would kill him when she found out about the divorce, but then again she had been coldly polite for months when he had been able to make time for her family dinners. He rubbed his face as he'd been seriously neglecting her and her kids as well.

He looked at his phone, only it was the one he used for work on a Germany network plan. He had no idea where his other phone was or when he had last charged it up. After searching his desk draws he found the missing phone to plug it in. He tried Alex's number to no avail. In desperation he phoned Paul's personal number, as the man picked up the caller realised it would be 4AM across the pond.

The clipped Manhattanite was cutting "Well, well, Cooper. You decided to call when the divorce is a done deal. You are a piece of work! You know, Al only filed in December because he was so sure you'd change your tune and get with the program when you got served with the court papers. Only you never called or gave a shit. He was working in New York until the end of February, hoping you'd repent and be his beautiful guy once again."

"So, he's working for Vladimir again?" Bernard said hopefully, thinking Alex had gone home to sort himself out.

There was a pause as he could hear Olga talking softly to Paul. He'd forgotten they were dating. "You don't know, do you?" Paul taunted cruelly.

"What have I missed?" he retorted, knowing Roscoe had a love of dealing dirt on those he thought deserved his ire.

"Alex fucked his leg in February. Olga was there, she vomited because it was so gross. He had surgery and has just got out of the cast, with a 30% chance of dancing again, after physiotherapy. He's still using crutches, but is back working on other projects, diversifying. He's picked up a few acting jobs and is living in LA and no I am not giving you contact details. Cyn might, but Olga would bust my balls if I let you hurt Al. Don't call me again. You are off our friends list and I will be blocking your number."

For the second time this morning, Bernard Niall Cooper felt sick to his stomach.

…

Olga sighed tiredly at this unexpected early morning disturbance, when she needed her beauty sleep. She mulled over several curses in her head then questioned her lover, "You left a lot out. Alex is back in New York tomorrow and you did not tell Mr. Cooper that Luci was ill."

"If he gave a shit about Sasha or his family, he'd have already known that. Its not a secret." Paul could see Olga's pensive expression in the ever present glow from the city lights. That whole phone conversation was disturbing on several levels, as he had referred to his friend as Alex or Al not his preferred gender neutral Sasha. "I'm not going to tell Sasha his ex called either. He needs a clean break since he's finally moving on."

Olga finally smiled, nodding in agreement, as she was aware Alex was over that failure and had moved on to deal with his new horizons, however that played out. "By the way, I got tickets for his opening night. It'll be a huge hit. Sasha is superb in rehearsals, Viktor is so happy with his little play. I promised to go to the party afterwards as well. Don't worry I emailed Dina, so your PA will make sure nothing clashes." She had already made sure her work schedule was clear, but the Met were bending over backwards to accommodate their new star.

"You are wonderful. I don't deserve you." Paul kissed this beautiful ballerina who was wearing his grandmother's ring. The wedding planned for New Years in Aspen. Something simple, just their friends and no press. He had his good fortune as a result of the friendship of Alex once again. A woman who understood commitment to work 100% as you needed grit and determination to succeed. She worked harder than he did and he loved her sharp mind, able to pick out just how he manipulated data to his advantage.


	21. Chapter 21

Francesco Conti had finished his birthday speech, two weeks before the expected 'surprise' party. He was nearly 70, in excellent health and had been a widower for nearly thirty years, as no one could replace Nina in his heart, though his daughter and her children made the loneliness bearable. He thought on his brood of grandchildren as he cast a glance over the various photos on his desk, eyes resting on the beautiful and mischievous Nineschka, who had truly had grown into her name. Too soon she would be breaking hearts and balls as she got precisely what she wanted out of life, like her mother and grandmother. Pyotr was like his father, clever, witty and sensitive, but with his hard calculating outlook on all who crossed his path. Greg was so like a chip off the old block, not an artistic bone in his body, good with numbers, life plan in place, but not so good with empathy.

There was one sibling missing from these framed photos: the cuckoo not legally adopted, but very much family, the strange, talented and fragile Sasha Makarov. The old man thought on the file in his safe stating the young man was in all probability the bastard son of General Sarov. The old man wiped the tears from his eyes, wishing he had never hired the private investigator to look into who this boy was, just accepted his Luci loved him like her own. The truth matched the damning psychological profile of a traumatised child. He had never had the heart to tell Luci that Alexander was unlikely ever to accept any family legally, not after that 'uncle' and father had been such monsters. As soon as that kid's lover had pushed him into marriage, Sasha had put his foot in the door ready to flee, equating promises of home with prison due to being abused so much, when so young. One who had learned at a young age that love meant hiding your true self, imprisonment and torture for not being the perfect weapon. The medical report from Murmansk, detailed a fourteen year old traumatised by the unforgivably evil act of watching his father kill himself as well as listing the physical harm inflicted on that boy's body; including bruises and welts from beating and whipping: also from being forcibly restrained on his wrists ankles and neck. Older scars, suggesting this was a usual occurrence.

…..

At eight PM, after a day spent amusing himself playing Call of Duty and hours since his last raid on the kitchen for snacks, Greg went to spend some quality time with his gramps. Life in the Hampton retreat was so much more relaxed now Nina and Pyotr had left to visit the freak Sasha in LA. His older brother seemed stuck in mom mode, insisting on balanced meals at regular intervals, no high sugar, high salt or high fat snacks and self imposed protector to the freak cuckoo; cause Nina was already scarily self sufficient. Petrushka needed to relax and live a little.

He entered his grandfather's study without knocking and was shocked that Gramps was upset and actually crying. Understandable considering it had been a horrible year. Though Mom was better now, her cancer gone. Mom and Dad were away on a second honeymoon for the next four weeks. The freak had been around too much since last summer, but having the cuckoo home had made Mom happy; God knows why. Sasha was not fun anymore now his partner Niall was no longer around. That love affair had not lasted long, then again Sasha had chosen to spend all his free time in New York cheering Mom up. Only she wasn't his mom, just a really good friend. Then the cuckoo had new nests to invade as he had been living with Paul Roscoe, Dieter Sprintz or Cassian James. The teenager approached the old man, concerned and worried "What's wrong, Grandpa?"

"Oh, its just I realised I have no group photos."

"Sure, you do. There are three from our last few holidays here." The teenager pointed to the family pictures.

"Who has been an almost constant in your parent's lives since 2004? I have not one photo of Sasha here. He came to two parties that first summer and has only returned here to drop you guys off or pick you guys up to take you back home. You were just a toddler then, but Sasha was legally in your parent's custody after Maria passed. That makes them his parent's even if he does not share your surname. Vladimir has often said, he should have accepted Maria as a mother and taken her name, rather than his made-up stage name. Many times Luci had aired her regrets over never offering adoption to that lost boy." The old man smiled, then laughed. So thankful that his beautiful daughter talked and gossiped and moaned all about her life, loves, work and regrets. He had been a good father and tried to fill in when a mother would normally have stepped in. He had been supportive even when he had intensely disliked her older, divorced Russian immigrant lover, but even he was not blind to his daughter's drive to get her man and keep him.

There was a sour look on Gregori Stepankov's face. "Mom's nickname cuckoo is far too accurate. Adopted by Maria. Not family, not really."

Frank shook his head. "That cuckoo has paid all your parent's bills this past year. I've covered school expenses only. He and Paul make money for fun in stocks, shares, bonds, currency, real estate. He inherited a far sum, sure. Earns barely enough from dancing even as a guest principal. His tax return last year was beautiful to behold in its efficiency." The strong friendship with Paul Roscoe, who was firm in his support after some dare at school. "I know that Sasha is not lying when he says he and his close friends were all teenage hoodlums. You and Pyotr are such angels in comparison. Your brother in all but name has a good heart. Anyway, there is no rule book that says you have to like him. He loves you, indulges your bad temper and sharp tongue. Pyotr told me."

"He's confusing, sad, tough, crazy and so very mixed up" was whispered, as Greg was aware there were several alters in the mix, some very scary to behold, not dangerous per say, just so damaged.

The old man felt old, as Greg was trying to vocalise his problems with Sasha's mental health issues.

The grey haired man rubbed his face with his handkerchief, to wipe off all traces of his regrets and self-recriminations and noticed the clock on the mantle said eight twenty five. "Come on, enough about family dynamics. Let's go get take out and I'll fill you in on what makes Sasha tick. Its a real horror story and you are old enough to know the ins and outs of it."

…..

Alex woke early, once again living in Dieter Sprintz's Central London pad, rent free. It was good to be back in London. He missed his flat in the City, but with the finalisation of the divorce, that place had been sold. The injured dancer hobbled to the shower. His leg was stiff before he put weight on it, as the displaced spiral fractures were healing well enough, but the brace was a fact of life until September, at the earliest. He had told only his closest friends the severity of his injury. The surgeon had done a marvellous job realigning and pinning bone splinters, but the damage to muscles meant it was unlikely he would ever dance again. Even with physiotherapy, it would be over a year before he could even rejoin class. Truth was only Olga and Paul were in on that bad news. He had not told Vladimir and Luci, who were basking in relief of her return to health after the all clear. The family unit now had to find a new focus, without the dance company. At over fifty, the exiled Russian dancer was now reading scripts with offers from various directors from indie arthouse to blockbuster gangster.

Unlike most dancers, the ex-spy wanted less not more fame, he yearned for solitude. There were only a few appointments in his diary, fortunately a prior engagement meant Sasha avoided Grandpa Frank's surprise birthday bash. This weekend was Graham's retirement party. Breakfast with Paul McAlaster was always a must when he arrived in London, there he could moan and get a reality check from his straight talking, very dodgy, old friend.

The four acting jobs had deepened his depression, as the characters he played seemed more real than he did out of the rehearsal room and off stage. The good notices meant nothing when the rest of his existence was without meaning.

…

The black tie ball was the must party of the year for those connected to Covent Garden and the ballet world. Sasha Makarov arrived stag, in a kilt, his purple leg brace fully in show. He headed to the bar and knew he was the being gossiped about. He ordered a Becks Blue and after a good slug of the amber alcohol free beer, Dave Meadows joined him.

"Four months is long time to be in a cast. The rumour was it looked bad. How is your leg, babe?"

"Another three months before its all knitted back together, according to my last checkup." The injured man left out the gruesome details that his tibia was smashed into eight pieces, with displaced fragments and the fibula had three straight breaks. All pinned in place. Most people assumed it was stress fractures. "I landed a jump wrong and well, I did a lot of damage."

The artist turned his attention from the barman to his friend, reading that the sparse information meant the injury was dire "Your career? On hold or…."

"Ask me again at New Year." The orthopaedic surgeon had been brutally blunt about the less than 20 per cent chance of full recovery to take the stress and strain of dancing professionally. Even so, Alex exercised every day to encourage full motion and strong muscles. He looked around, wishing Graham would turn up, so he could wish his friend well and go back to Mayfair and lie down. His last conversation with Gregori was replaying in his head, the fifteen year old had played the 'I get why you're a freak' card after Frank had decided the cuckoo was family, so that meant inclusivity and sharing of the dirt the old man had dug up about Sarov. He had then thrown back at Greg that he had been right all along, the cuckoo had long ago outstayed his welcome and it was high time to walk away, now Luci was back to being full time mom and wife, not patient.

Dave was for the barman's attention and ordered a martini, before turning to see Alex was glaring at a group across he room. His dear friend was not one to waste emotions on anyone, but the artist knew it was pure hatred in the dancer's eyes. There chatting to the board chairman of the opera house was the infamous spymaster, Alan Blunt. If looks could kill that man would be dead.

The dancer then turned and scowled, "can you do me a favour and apologise to Graham when he arrives. I'm ducking out so I don't have to make small talk with the man who blackmailed me when I was 14. Enjoy, adios Amigo."

The Artistic Director got a brief glimpse of Sasha Makarov as he got into a taxi to leave as the man of the hour arrived fashionably late. He turned to his partner who just shrugged. "Issues I'm sure. Considering Olga told you not mention his leg injury. His present was fabulous considering." A signed Picasso sketch of Maria from 1957, was worth thousands.

In half an hour, Alex had changed and packed, with the party forgotten. Another taxi, dropping him off at a lockup in Kensington. The Automatic Range Rover was mint, bought at auction for cash, its french registration plates now attached and a trailer his few possessions deemed ready for his new home. He'd make the first ferry across the channel easily. He wanted the solitude that his father's Brittany rural retreat promised.

The ex-spy was aware of his bad habit of moving often and this was just another move to him, but his goal was to put down roots. The farmhouse had been without tenants for nearly a year. He would be kept busy with urgent maintenance: mending the roof, unblocked the drains, clearing the garden. On arrival in France, he would send postcards to Olga and Luci, who both appreciated that old school communicatiom. He quite liked the simplicity of this rural DIY project.


	22. Chapter 22

Paul Roscoe was disturbed that he had lost GPS signal from Alex's phone. Its last recorded location was in France, near Fougères in Brittany. He was worried about his old school friend, who had moved without telling anyone his plans. The billionaire was one of a handful that knew the leg injury meant that it would be a miracle if Alex danced again. The postcard sent to Olga had been posted from St. Malo, cheerfully stating he was home at last; whatever that meant. Dave had been the last person to talk to Alex, and confirmed he had been spooked in every sense of the word after running from Alan Blunt.

The billionaire pondered, not for the first time, outsourcing Blunt's demise. Revenge for the spy's mismanagement of his own father's concerns, which had resulted in the death of Michael Roscoe. He had staid his hand, as life was better than good and he did not want to upset the apple cart. His friendship with Alex had brought him love, as he adored his fiancée. He would talk all options over with Olga when she called in three hours. Russians were were pragmatic. She had relaid Alex's plan, to retire to some rural idyll, raise chickens and cook Hunter's stew and apple sharlotka for all visitors. Paul thought that sounded appalling with no Michelin star takeouts, staff on call 24/7 or decent plumbing. He shuddered thinking about boarding school with awful communal facilities and the worst food. It was five star luxury at least for Paul, a man who owned resorts, a hotel chain, a fleet of jets, property all over the world and had a army of assistants to cater for his every whim.

In the game of being the best friend to an ex-spy, he thought he knew Alex, who was a rolling stone, always moving and unhappy staying put or putting down roots. Even in London, he had never really thought of it as home, just where he could fit best without trying too hard.

….

The farmer at St Elan had spoken to the new neighbour twice. The man with a Parisian accent spoke about growing up in London. The old man had asked about the leg brace, to be told it had been an accident at work. The young man worked hard, the overgrowth on the garden hacked back, roses, lavender and vegetables planted. The exterior paintwork had been sanded and filled. The few cracked panes of glass replaced. The Englishman's place would soon be ready for a young family, only Alex had stated he was recently divorced and happy to be single and remain unattached. Though Marguerite, the post woman, had stopped over for coffee and had managed an invitation to dinner tomorrow. The farmer wondered if this Alex could cook. There had been tins in the pantry and not much else. His late wife would have baked the young man a pie to welcome him, she had like the young blond woman from London who had bought the farm in 1986. This young man had her colouring and hesitant smile.

…..

Alex drove into Fougères for supplies. The hardware store first then the butchers and market as he was entertaining. The fellow divorcee was eager to moan and gossip. He had enjoyed flirting and guessed the postwoman was after quickie. It had been a long dry spell for the injured dancer, since the Sergeant had failed to live up to his promises. Though Alex was well aware he'd been happy to sit back and let the rot to set in. It had been easier to ignore the loneliness and pain of abandonment to roam the world dancing with Olga in the perfect image of love on stage. He knew hw was in withdrawal from the hard work and perfection of dance; more cold turkey from all hopes and dreams.

He decided on lunch and went to buy a newspaper from the kiosk in the market place. The Guardian and le Figaro were purchased. Deep in the London paper was a discussion on the recent spate of arrests over child abuse as he sipped a beer. His name was mentioned over the questioning in 2012 over the photographs from Point Blanc. The byline was speculation over a government conspiracy over a high profile paedophile ring, naming Herod Sayle as his abuser. The thought if that odious creep touching him put him off lunch.

After a walk, Alex bought a cheap mobile phone and called Paul and was not surprised when he was not connected. Mr Paranoia only accepted calls from known recipients and his phone was toast after it fell out of his pocket while he was meaning the roof. He decided against phoning Olga, Lola, Cassian or James. He had decided to cut ties with the dance world; for a clean break, as their was no point getting his hopes up. He was used to the throb and twinges of pain from his bad leg now. He went to the Patisserie and bought cake. His bad mood then disturbed by another expat. "Hi, you bought the house in St. Elan? We heard on the grapevine you're from London?"

"Yeah, Alex Makarov. I inherited the farm, though M. Le Clerque still farms the land."

"Oh, sorry! I'm Madeleine Bonner. We moved here in 2015. Bought the chateau at L'Epinay. It's a labour of love for us. Mick and I worked in the city. Commuting from Basingstoke was a bore"

He smiled as this woman talked and talked.

"We're having a small soirée on Friday, just casual. Do come. Bring Margarite if you like."

He wondered on that last bit of info. For once he was not overtly worried that he was the centre of the local gossip. He would enjoy tonight, hoping for friendship, maybe no strings sex. It had been years since Titania, most assumed she had just been a beard, but he had loved her in every sense. Pyotr had got one thing right, pansexual was the new acceptability of love without gender bias and that gender neutral was beyond cool. He liked that middle ground, being forced into the perfection of masculinity by Ian, Blunt and Sarov had damaged him. Even ballet was gender conformist, with the exception of a few contemporary pieces and reimagining avant garde. He would be truthful with his date tonight. How would being openly not male, not straight and not into families play out here?

….

Maya woke to the smell of fresh coffee. It was half light outside. She lay still basking in the afterglow of the best sex of her life. Her young lover deserved a harem, it was a crime to limit himself to the one wife or a husband. Married for fifteen years and she had never experienced orgasms like this. Alex had shown her the skills he had learned from his Russian lesbian fiancee. At forty two, she had a found out that sex was not the stop gap for loneliness but that it could be addictive.

For their breakfast in bed, Alex served hot chocolate and coffee and the cake they had not eaten last night. Maya smiled and kissed him deeply, before a quick shower and dressing to leave for work. At the door, she pondered the party on Friday and buying some new underwear for another night of passion. "Madame Bonner is a terrible bore, but her husband has an excellent wine cellar. I'll meet you there."

….

It was Sabina Pleasure who unravelled the mystery of Alex going 'home' to France. She sighed at Paul Roscoe's overbearing I'm in charge attitude as he moaned about not being kept in the loop. "Look, Roscoe. Its simple. Alex told me John and Helen, his long dead parents, were going to settle in France. Alex must have inherited that property along with that house in Chelsea. He's sold his flat in London and has liquidated his other holdings. Enough invested to live, on a modest budget. I bet the house was bought by Helen, maiden name Beckett. Brittany is a good place to start looking, though give Alex a few weeks to get settled. He might actually be thinking of hiding out there permanently. Let him. If he wants to reconnect or talk he will. Maybe he doesn't. You have more important things to worry about, like that perfect marriage in Tahiti you're planning. Olga first, Alex can wait."


	23. Chapter 23

The bar was very expensive, but the vodka he was drinking was going on Dimitry's tab. He looked around and could see Lazrov, the man of interest to the FSB and his chosen mark, who had arrived with his security, like a ring steel around him. Alex hated his schoolfriend for asking this favour, such a simple task to keep the man here until after midnight. Not sleep with him, not work for him and not do anything remotely unsavoury or illegal. Yet, it was placing him back in a world he hated, full of secrets and lies. He had left all this behind after his breakdown and asking him to so this small bit of hospitality was chipping away at the glue holding his fragile psyche together.

He would be lying to say that his brief escape to that rural idyll had been truly satisfying or fulfilling, but during those three short weeks the ex-dancer had begun to build a new life and make new friends; a home for the first time since the few months of living in his flat in the City of London. That love nest had been destroyed by the Sergeants need to prove himself a success to his love. The farm in Brittany had always meant to be a clean break between his old life and his retirement. He had intentionally not told anyone his location.

Dimitri arriving unannounced had brought all thoughts of home and good intentions to nought as the great game tainted everything once again. The veiled threats disguised as reasonable requests were the reason he was off the wagon and he saw no reason for stopping until he fell down blind drunk, quite possibly with acute alcohol poisoning. Again he was a pawn in someone else's masterplan, even though he had barely spoken two words to Roman Lazrov before. The FSB must have had an agent in place in London at Paul McAlaster's club or in Roman's entourage to know of that man's brief introduction to Alex way back when the only dancing he had done professional had been while removing his clothes. He drained his glass and ordered another martini, the civilised way to drink neat liquor and appear sophisticated not just on the way to getting completely wasted. The barman, the FSB handler looked worried, a drunk contact had not been part of the plan.

The ex-dancer careful stood, getting his balance to ensure he did not harm his already damaged leg or the wire tap sewn into this designer jacket. Even the clothes picked out for him were an affront to his usual style, fashionable but too overtly straight and male. Seven steps and he stood before the arms dealer. He knew the script the FSB had run past him, but went freestyle as he had no need to be obsequious or charming about a past meet and greet. "Hi, we met in London in 2006. I was eighteen, a dancer at a private party at the Phoenix Club. You wanted to buy me from Paul McAlaster, but he was my pimp not my owner. Though technically, he owned me until I paid off my lover's debt. So… I was wondering, you don't seem the type to need to own a well used whore."

The man smiled sadly as he took in every detail of the ballet star before him. "Please join us for refreshments, Alex."

The use of that forename then and now, meant this man was well aware that Sasha Makarov had always been one and the same as the underage MI6 agent Alex Rider. He sat and then bluntly asked "Were you SCORPIA?", not caring that their idea of revenge had no time limit and asking could be sealing his fate.

"No, but I did use them for certain troubleshooting, they provided excellent services before Max Grenfell had his unfortunate accident. My interest was always in you not your unique skills. I was fortunate to count your mother among my few genuine friends, Maria and I met in 1978, when I was a mere GRU junior officer. I saw what love had reduced you to and I misjudged my attempt to help you escape. That London fixer knew what a prize you were and was quite happy to keep you on his books. It was only the threats from that billionaire that freed you from his claws. My mistake at the time, as I could not harm my business interests by making an enemy of a very astute businessman like your pimp."

Alex relaxed and put his drink down, taking his jacket off and accidentally on purpose covered the sensitive and fragile wireless microphone. "My former foster father believed it best to let children make their own mistakes, then be there in for clean up duty during the aftermath. He bailed on me due to my cocaine addiction. Maria was much more adept with broken children; she let me be independent, trusting me to learn from my missteps. I have always known what type of man Paul McAlaster is. He never lied to me, I willingly paid off that debt and I never did anything I was not 100 per cent OK with doing. Unlike others in my past and present, there was no threats or coercion used. I could have walked at any time and let Paul extract either retribution or money from my lover. That man is a real friend and you are aware that in those circles you don't piss on the hand that feeds you."

Roman smiled and raised his hand, the FSB agent poising as a waiter was there immediately. "Crystal, 1996. Two glasses and bottles of still water for my team. All to be opened at the table."

There was a pause as the sixty something, slightly overweight man with thick dark hair and beard appraised the obviously unhappy contact and realised this was not a willing FSB pawn. "Did your friend Dimitri Ivanov threaten you to get you to play their games tonight? I know they are searching my apartment and offices tonight. I have a well placed informant who tells me things. You know that if you do one favour for these type of people they never stop asking."

Alex guessed as much and wondered if that supposed friendship with Maria really extended beyond killing him for his part of this 'entrapment scenario'. "Yeah, I thought saving his life meant I got a get out of being a whipping boy card or something, but I should have know better. So, back to business. What is your interest in me? I'm single, I have no prior engagements and I'm not much good for much until my leg heals."

Roman smiled as the waiter approached and popped the cork of the top of the line aperitif, pouring out two glasses of the golden liquid, with the bottles of water for the security left untouched. The Azerbaijani based billionaire tasted and savoured the champagne; a long pause before the waiter moved out of earshot to serve another table, "As the Americans say join the dark side, I have cookies."

…..

Alex woke with the blistering headache and disorientating dizziness that came with mixing grape with grain. Well ingrained situational awareness kicked in despite his hangover. He was on a business jet in flight at altitude. No jacket, so no bug or any tracking device. He was wearing his own clothes, not those supplied by the Russian spooks. Silk shirt and cashmere pants, both unisex, more feminine than masculine, soft and sensual against his skin.

Roman's deep baritone was a mere whisper and full of genuine concern, noticing his guest was awake, "Good morning, Alex. Please drink the isotonic prepared and take the pain killer. We can assess if you need treatment options when we land."

….

Paul Roscoe got the report from the private detective in France and went postal, cancelling days of appointments including a dinner with Olga. He seethed as he informed his fiancee of the disappearance of Alex and the fact his friend, Dimitri Ivanov was to blame.

"Darling I'm going to Moscow to find out precisely how badly Dimitri fucked our careful plan to keep Alex happy and sane. I have to sort this out." He left out the detail that he had proof Alex had fallen off the wagon and that his obscenely drunk friend had been practically comatose when those gangsters had carried him onto a plane after clearing out the hotel room of Alex's personal effects, while the Russian's looked on and did nothing. The lodged flight plan of the business jet had the plane refuel in Dubai, then fly onto India; but no passengers were recorded as alighting at either airport. Where was Alex and how did he connect to this traitor of the Russian State?


End file.
